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,
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 (and 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.
