Wasilla

She was like the berry red on the bushes against the cold snow

Cook Inlet in the Matanuska-Susitna Valley, Hatcher Pass, George Parks Highway

As the navigation skills of an Iditarod Trail Sled Dog she knew what to do

A red berry on a bush that I knew I shouldn't, couldn't eat but wanted to go

On and on like an Athabaskan who learned to hunt not for sport but to survive

At the window sad and lonely I knew I had a song for the sun and moon and you

In a cabin strumming a six string acoustic guitar with the squalling wind and snow

Wool flannel, bourbon whiskey, wine, fine cognac and she had the gift of fire

I was a park ranger and couldn't see the danger in the miles of smoke she burnt

And I really don't care. I knew she was an actress who had fled the petty mores

Of men that constricted any belief in revival and the ways of a natural survival

I swear in the cities of San Francisco, San Diego, Denver, Pittsburgh and New York

The people in the steeples had the hair on their necks raised when they caught a look