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
