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In The Cool Of The Night

Colorado, 2000

My journey there is gently circled, by women of
soft curves and mounds in changing shades of mottled lights.
Warming chinooks sweep over breasts of
rolling hills and big bison plains where
eagles fly - high, then drop, deep into
shadow'd crevices, between verdant valleys
of the womb, to rise again in golden rays,
soaring over knotty nippled pinnacles.
Ice-flocked forests of grandeur spread
dark shadows on silvered Aspen slopes
splashed pinkish-mauve at sunset.
Tufted candy-floss skies, a warning:
snowfall, must keep that pile of Pinyon dry.
It gets real cold up here from just on Fall.
Soon, long wintry days end early. All life it
seems is frozen. But I wanted, did you know?
I wanted to tell how through these slatted blinds
and sunrise-filtered rays, I look for her, my
Amazon by my side, in the sun and the moon
and in radiating stars. Dawn skies awake
splendiferous in apricot and strawberry juices
melding in delight. But by noon gray clouds are
merging, forming gun-smoke signals, spiralling the sky
like some alien primordial amoebae, or dark
sea-horses drifting, sailing by. I wanted, too,
to tell you about the birds, the animals, prowling,
feasting in days and nights of danger - then
gunshots loud and clear - bastards shooting deer!
Disrupted: sweet vanilla-scented nights
under skies of swooping stars; winking heavens,
crisp and clear in landscapes virgin white.
Serenity in gently falling snowflakes. Each crystal,
some punctilious possibility of knowledge,
sparkles in signals, beckoning us, but quickly
breaks. Like fragments of memory they fade
away, disintegrating into cold and icy wetness.
Ah, Colorado, your vast horizons, blue, blue forever,
and the shadowy snow peaks are your air.
Snowflake-cloaked spread limbs, your ice.
Pinyon pines burning and sweet vanilla wafts,
your heated fire. Flames roar. Snow melts,
your water. Fresh whiteness your aura.
Chinook-swept touches, your precious earth.




~~~




©barbaraataylorjune04