Sauerkraut in Winter

In my fridge summer ferments,
in sauerkraut in winter,
salty summer,
red cabbage summer,
pale green cabbage summer,
made at summer’s end,
in a bowl, like kneading bread,
till water, once rain, covers summer
crisp and bursting, ripe and sweet
and sour.

It’s not far a summer field
sauerkraut in winter,
translucent winter,
healing, hearty, fireplace winter,
tart and crunchy winter,
winter to be shared
in sauerkraut Hungarian stew,
sauerkraut, sausage, blue potatoes,
in a toasty-warm, mingling reuben.

This morning is frozen-white,
undeniable at seven below.
I go to the fridge and find
the familiar mason jar of sauerkraut,
cabbages once growing in my garden.
I open the lid,
reach in and spoon
summer out.

Day Three

Like a picture in a book,
we sit in front of the hospital window
looking out

you and Sarie and I,

looking out from the sixth floor,
at snow like an infinity of floating

dandelion seeds.
We are three generations of gardeners,
three observing birds,

three words lined -
waiting to light 

upon the ground.

Day Two

hands strong on arms of the chair
 from Jim
pushing up to stand
  from John
“only one half” she smiles at me
reaching to grab the waiting walker
 from Granddaddy
stepping steadily forward, one foot in front
of the other
 from Anda and Zoli
one foot in front of the other
 from Omi and rounding Lake of the Isles
at the bed she turns delicately around
 from Minnesota wind and ice
she says without sitting, “let’s go again,”
 from Poppie
one foot in front of the other
 from studying and teaching year after year,
 from peach roses and saffron daisies
one foot in front of the other
 from gardening all day and all day again,
 from blueberry picking and every sky
 she has ever seen, blue to black and black to blue,
 from happenings of which she is unaware
she reaches the chair, turns delicately
around and releases the walker
 from all her grandchildren
hands to the arms of the chair, strong and secure
 from great granddaughter Sylvie
and she sits to discuss the philosophy of walking
 from me

Day One

She broke her leg
running  to yoga
missing the last stair step,
my mother

with intramedullary nails,
out of surgery and resting
only for awhile,
she tries to stand the first chance she can get,
my mother

I help her drink a cup of broth,
bring her rye bread
instead of a plant,
feel numb observing and listening
to nurses and doctors,
and in a hospital bed,
my once fast-walking mother.

Tonight we see each other

in the window in her room.

I tell her tomorrow the sun
is going to shine all day. 

How is it that I feel snow
falling on me and onto
my mother?

For Lisel Mueller

2 am
- awakened by Moon,
my hungry, dilute calico.
I rise, half asleep, half a sound
paws and feet on the floor, to give
her canned herring.
Snow still falls outside the window.

2:10 am
I find myself
floating into a world of words.
Yours.  Arctic air fills my room;
I am trying to listen to snow.

4 am
The front door opens, almost asleep
I rise to greet my son home from Florida.
“Did you have a good time?”
One week and he’s taller, shining in the foyer light.
“Dad gave me the key to his house.
 It was sweet.” he says and drifts downstairs,
drifting that sounds like snow.