Beasts of Boulder

My father used to tell me

the mountains were living,

breathing,

giants.

He’d point to the snowy peaks within the clouds

telling me they were white cashmere caps

giants would wear,

because their heads would get cold in the air up there.

And the foothills bordering the carmine brick city

were truly the feet of many beasts.

The river filled with snowmelt

and flowed like a vein to the heart of the city,

keeping the giants alive.

Woodsy smells of vanilla and home,

could seduce me enough to stay forever,

but my father also told me,

see the forest for the trees.

He urged me to leave this realm and become my own,

not forgetting to remind me, this can always be home.

People try to disenchant me,

telling me it’s all make believe.

But I still hear the mountain call

echoing through me. 

Though I can’t live a fairytale,

I’ll write my story nonetheless,

of a girl who built her home

in the giants of the West.

November 2016