Dear Colorado River

Dear Colorado River

Dear Colorado River
 
            It is November on the Colorado Front Range and there is a white sheet of snow covering the un-raked fall leaves. I have Post-It notes spread across my kitchen of things to do before December: books I have not read, papers I have not written, poems I have not forgiven. I have Post-It notes hidden in drawers of what to do after graduation (these ideas I fear disclosing, even to you). My superfluous obsession with future has kept me awake three nights this week, in which I laid in bed and lamented for I couldn’t not dream of your landscape (and I could not accept my own).
            In these months, I mourn for you. I must work harder to feel your presence because the seasons keep us from each other. I do not identify my longing as nostalgia—I diagnose myself with being homesick for the future of you.
            I want to dip my sandy feet in your waters.
            I want to climb the volcanic black rocks on your banks in Ruby & Horsetheif Canyon.
            I want to count the dragonflies landing on my wrists as I paddle down your current.
            I want to lie under unpolluted stars, your canyon framing the sky, so that I can again say I know what it means to be in the present. 
But August is months away. I imagine our family canoes: cold in the garage, collecting piles of moth corpses. 
            Today as I walked across the concrete river of my college campus, a young man in a yellow vest asked me if I had a moment. He held a clipboard. He lectured me on your condition. I did not lecture him on our intimacy. He wanted to protect you; he asked if I could donate money to rescue you. I told him I was late for a meeting. I walked into the nearest building and heaved on an empty bench.
            I worry I cannot give to you all that you give to me. I worry more that I have not tried.

Molly Davidson

Whole

Whole

Ripening

Ripening