Colorado (1970, 1972, 1973, 1982, 1984, 2015, 2023)

It’s always been
a strain against thin air, peaks
beautiful as famous old models–
austere grandeur, deceptive accessibility
as if splashy photo spreads could make cold
tangible enough to succumb
to warm hands
and comprehension.

Not something that crossed my mind
at the wheel of a u-haul piled with books.
Then the road wound so close
to the edge it didn’t need to be imagined.
No nets slowed scree pushed
by spring rains, wild winds,
inevitable snows.
No dividers from the ledge,
the up from the down,
nothing but the valley,
then once again the great stone faces
to ascend and move beyond.

It has become safer.
Now tunnels pass through new routes,
sturdier barriers impose
distance from what was once
seen below, how a car
could fall.

No one I know
died on those snowy slopes,
nor broke bones
at Winter Park, where I swam
as others skied.

Still, it’s loss
that populates the city
where your kids remain
strong somehow against the cold,
inured it seems
to how frost bites flesh
and sloughs what’s dead.

In summer, too, the trails