When wind first kissed thy golden fields of grass,
It touched thine silken hair in such a way
Thou danced, a tempest, a storm through mountain pass,
That Colorado, without thee, would decay.
Thou art a statue, a sculpture of pain –
Alas, those fields of grass are also such
A pillow ‘pon which I can rest my brain
When all the weary world befalls too much.
Thou art a whirlwind, wrapped within thyself,
And such a sight as thee should ne’er be named
For that would cheapen thy ethereal wealth,
The treasure for which I wish I had remained.
Regret and love together so collide
When think I of those fields in which thou Hyde.

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