Blue Mountain,  
Miriam, painter, coal scuttle black eyes.
The Dipper fills up with days of being
noticed, opinions listened to,
talk of naming the moon.
I tell her of the runny white of my childhood moons.
Sunday, one egg beheaded and served in a cup
when I was swallowed by the rule of nuns.
She speaks of easel and brush, Rouault, Leger,
her atelier high over Paris. 
“Fritatas and soufflés in the Santa Cruz,
rooms over the lake, the Canadian Rockies,” I say.
 “Mountain are made of fire and rocks,”
Miriam stands her ground when I speak
of gods at the summit.
Later we point to pines, Loblolly, White
and then to these rugged elders, the Appalachians
leaning in to hold us  before we flicker out.