Autumn in southern Colorado is always unpredictable. The degree differential climbs to 72 in the
day and dips to freezing overnight. The snow may come at any moment, so we remain ready for
its arrival. Each day is a new start that goes beyond the small talk about weather, that reminds us
how the seasons may influence our mood and energy. It points out that renewal is not exclusive
to the darling buds of spring. It can be in the heart of winter’s still landscape with untouched
snow illuminated by the moon. The chilly landscape can surge us awake to take brave steps out
the door. It can be as miraculous as a hatching egg, breaking open as in Jen Stewart Fueston’s
opening poem. Renewal is the other poems and prose that slows us to ponder the struggle we
need to tackle after we’ve retreated. We find ourselves reflected in the salmon’s stubborn journey
to spawn, the town that welcomes the rain after surviving a drought, the care in placing a new
tattoo on vulnerable skin, or letting abuelita nurse our black eye with a slice of Spam.
Renewal goes along with rebellion. It helps us to rise, to resist, to say “Me too,” to say no more
in the march with a brave crowd or when standing alone. It’s the strength of Sarah Gribble’s lone
rebel in “Red Alert,” willing to sacrifice herself against a suppressive government. It’s the
reminder even if a government shutdown closes a national park, no one can deprive us of nature.
We step past the orange cones and yellow tape. We hike and stumble into what’s unexpected. We
embrace the simple exhilaration of riding a European bullet train that plunges us out of darkness
and into a country we are now ready to discover. We pine for Cuba out of reach and smoking
cigarettes on a rooftop. We wake up each day to a little less pain from divorce. We lose ourselves
to nostalgia that inspires us find new mistakes to make, to accept the defiant decisions of our
children that let us hope they have found their intended path.
Renewal welcomes us to wander toward the ferris wheel along the coast, along with the newly
widowed protagonist in Evelyn Coffin’s, “The Whole Sky.” High in the air with a new view, we
acknowledge our defeat and realize that we are persistent. Each writer in this issue helps us to
recapture a spark, to strike back against fear, and to affirm the progress we’ve made by stepping
into the light. Like the narrator in Jenny Molberg’s poem, “The Wolf of Coole Park,” the wolf’s
growl captures her heartbreak in a relationship that can’t continue, but it guides us toward
understanding the growl can also be the hunger that guides us deeper into the woods that just
might house hope, rejuvenation, or the chance reunion with a part of ourselves we forget was
there. We dig ourselves out of grief, relearn our tools, and shake off the rust that weighs us down.
Juan Morales
Pueblo, CO
November 2017
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