I want to write a poem on dirt boogers.
When I'm working for hours under the hard sun, digging in the earth so deeply that dirt infiltrates every part of myself.
And makes blowing my nose a lot more exciting.
Want to write a poem on oatmeal.
When a bowl full of hot beige mush warms my body and wakes my mind in a frosted alpine morning.
The golden mountains painted by sunrise towering over me and my almond buttered oats.
I want to write a poem on making friends after months of isolation
When you experience real company after almost forgetting what it feels like. It's sometimes hard to recognize the absence of loneliness.
I want to write a poem on mountain lakes.
When my body hits the melt water and not even my Minnesota skin is ready for the chill. But I surrender to the freshwater sirens anyway.
I want to write a poem on a lot of things
But I can't
Out here, there are always too many poems to write
And not enough time
Or notebook space
To write them all down
And that's okay
Because out here, the poems write themselves.
Crystallized by mountain air into blisters and memories.
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