I got a letter years ago
from a man who said
he liked the poetry I write
that he hasn’t ever liked poetry
because it always makes things more complicated than they are
but that my poems
about living in the mountains
about working with my hands
made him see the value
I was honored
so I gave him
my first book of poems
It was not the type of poetry
that I usually send to the paper
they were sonnets
in stylized verse
and I’m proud of this book
but it doesn’t reflect
the poet the voice the community
that I want to be
that I want to write from
that I want to represent
I told him to write
with what he thought
I never heard back
and now each week
when I write a new poem
I think about this man
and about who I want to be
and what I want to write
for I want to tell the story
of the Rocky Mountains
and the people
who have made them their home
I want to write about
the foxes the nut hatches
the way the clouds crash
into the granite and pines
I want to write about the changes in weather here
and how I fear for the future
of this place I love
how I fear the fires
and the drought
and the endless taming
of what’s left of the wild
I want to write about
the 60 million buffalo
and the people
who lived off of them
who lived in this place
for longer than we ever have
and whose absence
is a scream
I want to write about the west
as it was,
and as it is now
and as it could be
and I want to write it for you
for anybody
for the man who wrote me
who I failed
I want to write poetry
through which
anybody can feel into
the glory of this place
how the spring dusting of snow
above feeling
shimmered as it melts
in the gentle sun