In childhood, that drowsy dream

of mountain peaks and meadows wide;

of needles crunching under-foot

of sun-soaked woods and babbling brooks;

where inspiration could abide

my heart belonged to Evergreen.

I learned that home and family

(both fluctuating, changing things)

tether us, by degrees to

where we’re born: towns, countries.

and in my blood and in my brain

indelibly were stamped it seemed

the air and sky and peaks and planes

of Colorado: Evergreen.

I learned, quite young

that I belonged to this small town

with elk-filled fields

and columbines, burst-out among

snow-laden hillsides, purple yields 

to violet amid the brown.

In snowy town, all sun-shine shroud

nestled deep in canyon walls

we flew Old Glory high and proud

from cedar cabins big and small,

cheered at high school football games,

watched fire-works light the July air

and listened to the wistful strains of

Willie at The Little Bear.

I tasted pie at Summerfest,

in Bear Creek I did wade and dream

of my mountains, and the rest:

my heart belonged to Evergreen.

So as I grew and traveled far,

saw other mountain majesties,

exceeding not that highest bar

of scented pines, and towering trees;

of shining lake and one stop light,

small steepled church and hardware store,

where eagles soared in constant flight

in turquoise sky, white clouds galore,

I never questioned my true home,

my affection was unwavering

for rock-hewn Camelot where I’d grown:

my heart belonged to Evergreen.

And then, at tender age I left

we packed our bags and went away

and I, all empty and bereft

did dream of mountains, night and day.

though other places called to me

their alabaster cities gleamed

poor substitutes they all would be

for I was looking back it seemed.

and now that on my hands—eyes, stronger,

time has carved some tiny lines

and elsewhere I have lived far longer

than the city in the pines

still, when I smell the mountain air

or smell a brand-new Christmas tree

for a moment I am there:

my heart belongs to Evergreen.