Friday, May 13, 2011

TC: Old Mine Road (Caribou)


Bear Lake (Colorado): photo by Trojan, 2004

Just below timberline

life bursts in

where water was
it's mostly mossy

with willows
and dark spaces

and wild daisies
and mazes of glades

and pools

Lilly Lake (Colorado): photo by Trojan, 2004


Anonymous said...

That's right. That's where this happens and that's what this shows. I would like to see this this on classrooms walls from Pre-K through 12. After that I would like to know that professors displayed it in their homes.

TC said...


We once spent a summer and an autumn up in the Front Range of the Rockies on a spot aptly called Hurricane Hill, at c. 9,000 feet; there were lakes like these scattered through the woods; it was mystically beautiful; also at times pretty scary (hunters having target practice around those old mine shafts); and then came winter, and...

Anonymous said...

Now that the weekend's over, I came back to this poem and these images and colors for a little peace, which is hard to find. As you say, there's always target practice and winter to contend with. (Shortly after we moved to Tuxedo Park, a small sylvan enclave where hunting is forbidden, we arrived home to find a bullet hole in our house that had been left there by deer hunters; that was unsettling.) I'm unsure what this week promises, but I'll always have this to return to. (And summer is supposedly on the way.)

TC said...


In that vicinity in that period, the big hunting time was just after Broncos games. When the pickup trucks with loaded rifle racks and cases of Coors in the back showed up, it was time to duck and cover.

Anonymous said...

A response I sent to you last comment strangely appeared at first and then disappeared. That's how I feel sometimes. I was saying (as they say), I can relate. In Tuxedo Park, where no hunting is permitted, we've found a bullet lodged in our house and a window shattered by a stray shot. The report of gunfire during hunting season is a regular, awful sound. Sometimes, because we're fairly close to West Point, we hear all-day exercises, which sound like loud, not too distant thunder (the difference being that thunder and the weapons they use are pretty easily distinguishable). Because of Old Mine Road (Caribou), I spent some very enjoyable time last night with the poems in Paradise Resisted. It is a marvelous collection.