Night Visitor


A huge bipedal figure ran across
my yard last night, his wide-stride imprint
dark against the pristine snow. He broke
the ice crust on the blue-white blanket
that has held me trapped for days,
a prisoner tied up by weather.

Has Big Foot come this way?
The forecast says it will be colder still.
This morning, minus six degrees,
surely an irrational number. Maybe more
snow, more ice, more days inside.
That’s insane; I could go berserk.

Today I chop celery, carrots, potatoes,
all organic, and a full pound of kidney beans,
plus a quart of home-canned tomatoes
from last summer— a hundred years ago.
Six quarts to portion out and label. 
I juggle, reconfigure earlier containers.

Like so many things, my appetite
for cooking is larger than my freezer.
For Big Foot, I put the pot outside, half-full
still, leftovers for him. He might arrive
again. I’ll let him in to whisper strange new 
words for fifty shades of snow.