Sound of the Sun


The sound of the sun

sweeps the burning bowls of snow

ignites all that is certain

delicate flakes fall, then

white wombs of night swell

like a mystical ocean

in the middle of the plains

the Rockies rise above

Gone are the maples and oaks

gone are the familiar churches

and steeples, here in the mountains

all is lost

all is found


By Kate Bell – Buena Vista, CO