To Denver Poem by Michael Walker

We flee the city of fire and ice,
Her bells still tolling from her golden spires,
To sing to us, 'Thy silence shall suffice, '
Before sun sets on snow in nightly pyres.

Her winter is the death of our desires,
As we labour in the damp, dark cold
To listen for her stars' celestial choirs
That chant to us, 'Grow bold, rather than old.'

Her summer is the story never told!
Even though we say, 'It is the best, '
Sometimes her heat feels the most cold,
So, for her weather, we seem cursed, not blessed.

The sun entombed in mountains of the West
Is born from her womb, not at her behest.