Dear Poets,
Wishing you were here in Southwest Colorado.
Together, we would word paint the beauty
of the snow-capped mountains glowing in the distance,
Mesa Verde looking regal, and more inviting
since the ice has melted off the narrow cliff-side roads,
the calm expanse of foothills and flatlands, sage brush, horses,
cows, elk, deer meandering about beneath a brilliant blue sky.
The rhythm of our words would sound out
the drums and chants of traditional Navajo dancers,
the lonely narrow-gauge train whistle,
the low flute-like call of a mourning dove,
the high-pitched squeal of a bull elk.
Our imagery would manifest the earthy smells of sage and cedar.
We’d word weave the feel of cool evenings, rocky foot paths,
and icy mountain water. We’d make our readers salivate
at the thought of Navajo fry bread and authentic enchiladas.
Yes, come play in this poet’s playground.
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