Somewhere South and a wee bit West
blood replenishes my hungry heart.
Because Colorado keeps it beating.
A roaring river drowns out
whispers of who walked these lands before me.
Before my father.
And my father’s father.
Certain stories remain forever…
kept quietly in the crevices of creeks. deep in drained dark dirt,
deserted by old societies
and any sign of water.
So I was taught to hunt…
to survey these lands
with my father
who learned from his father
and likely his father before.
Foraging tradition
searching for sign of ancient man.
For even just a hush of life…
It’s here we practice patience, in silence
pacing up sage-brushed mountainsides,
where we may spot a spear,
long left behind, but not forgotten.
And though carefully crafted of
quartz, obsidian, flint…
It’s always Gold to my father
and me.
A perfect point, or not, is still perfect.
They all point to life once lived.
Life once beautiful,
with only dusty arrowheads to show for it.
Yet we call them treasures.
Because old life is important.
And old life means something.
Though, these treasures are not ours to keep.
Only to hold, and show and share.
Just long enough to weave memories into our minds.
And through memory we pass on this meaning
from father to son to daughter and so on and I wonder…
Those who tread after me…
Will they find meaning in things I didn’t mean to leave behind?
Will they pause to listen for a hush of my life?
Will they care to search for signs of my family?
Or will this old life of mine be buried
alongside Ancient Man?
And all meaning lost
among the inevitable sediment of time.
Mariel Gorsuch was born and raised in Aspen, Colorado where she grew up skiing and adventuring throughout the Rocky Mountains. Mariel enjoys writing poetry and children’s books which she hopes spark feeling, creativity and connection.