Aurore Rimlinger

I have taken off. It has been 31 + 30 + 10 days. Now they ask about Boulder
And I see the mountain. She is floating. She is a she because she is the mother
The mother of the elephant, she leads the way. The unmoving matriarch.
My feet were so cold back then, early November. I had taken my bike.
Birds observation is why I had gone out. It was cold like a bare blade.

I was wearing these suede shoes my mother had given me for the year.
I was wearing them when I left Paris and back. Back is a cruel word.
They were okay for mild winters, here the mountain was wide and white.
I had to ride home crying the pain. The unsuitability, sometimes.

So that is where I belonged. This side of the road after Chautauqua Park.
I wanted to stare at the Flatirons forever. I had the ticket for my flight in May
Saved somewhere. I had my too thin shoes and heart and the nascent pain.
Summer came. I don’t need shoes nor heart nor pain. I bathe in my memories.
By the road, frozen to the bone. Still, the loving gaze of the mountain, gone.