One of the 24 poems in Breaking the Surface and the Importance of Breathing
I Am the Colorado Sun.
I am the Colorado sun.
I come up on the flat plain
Over the most beautiful blue sky
You ever saw.
I change to red
And drop behind Mt. Meeker and long’s Peak
Just for you.
Burn—more sunny days than anywhere;
Makes people smile,
Act proud and cocky—not like Texas though.
Colorado’s special; it’s joy.
I’ve come through for you, haven’t I?
You come, and I shine.
Your new dogs run.
They run in the joy of the grass,
the trees and the squirrels—teasing.
I make Rainbows because they dry your tears.
I call the swallows from your barn.
I say “Fly through the rainbow,”
and you take pictures and laugh
—just as I hoped you would.
And I stop for rain, hard, astonishing rain
—because it makes you stop.
My corn is so high and sweet-scent alfalfa, no soybeans.
Remember, Jim tried to grown soybeans on the old pasture? Too many weeds.
You and Donald work to beat back the weeds.
You plant seeds: Big Bluestem, Side Oats Grama, and Indian Rice Grass
“I want a medium-grass prairie. I want it to wave in the wind,” you said.
The seeds don’t take, not even trailing, little Buffalo Grass! It’s too dry here.
You work in my sun and become taller and happier than you had ever been.
Colorado and sun.
Hunters, blinds, trucks, gun racks, even holsters, flat prairie,
Furrows, seeders, tractors, harvest, plow to fine dust—a storm, brown air coats everything.
December, January, and February:
I snow on ten-thousand-foot-tall mountains; they glisten.
Snow, spring, snowmelt
to rivers, to creeks, to ditches, to fields, rushing, cordoned off, shares—of water!.
I show you all this that is new, you smile, and your mind breaks free.
“Shares of water, can you imagine that!” you say.
You thank me every day.
By Nancy Haydon Gray, Newark, Delaware, November 21, 2010