by Judith Lee Herbert
Clouds surround us in the mountains
of Estes Park, in August.
I am elated, driving through the blizzard,
Dana, at ten, in the back seat,
Allan at my side.
We follow the dim red glow of tail lights
slowly, through fog’s fluffy whiteness.
Descending mountain curves,
I am soaring through silvery light.
Last night I dreamed that
my mother drove through a snowstorm
to visit me.
I opened the car door.
Cold frosty snow covered
her clothes, face, lashes.
She’d forgotten to close the windows.
Occasionally a glimpse of her
Who she once was, covered by
a layer of frozenness,
a blanket of whiteness.
Judith Lee Herbert has returned to poetry after a successful career in another field. She graduated Cum Laude in English Literature from Columbia University. She has a daughter who is a sophomore in college, and she lives in New York City, with her husband, who writes plays. She had her daughter while in her 40s.