Books by Diane Frank

Swan Light

Dawn after the Art Walk

Line of a train on the north side of town
an hour before sunrise.
I open the early morning window
to snow under a street lamp.
In my bedroom, a chill in the walls,
a loneliness deeper than my bones.

Changing my shoes after the waltz,
I walk into the cold air alone.
By the door to the Landmark Hotel
at exactly the wrong moment,
I witness a marriage unraveling.
In one evening, in front of me
all of the reasons I left this place.

Dreams tumble like the paintings I saw –
tree frogs splotching a red barn
under an arch of cottonwood branches,
a dancer climbing blue star stairs
to the Pleiades.

Five years ago, I packed up
what was most important to me
in my Toyota and drove
west across the mountains.
In the back seat,
my cello, my dance shoes, my favorite books
including the one I was writing.

Somewhere inside, beyond the snow
I knew about you
and knew you were not here.

— Diane Frank