Aspens
The aspens of Colorado have turned
the mountains to nostalgia, yellow and stale
like the pages of an old book.
Hard labor has peeled and blistered
my skin with ache and purpose.
Open flames and the heat of the factory floor
give way to blasts of cold as I maneuver pallet jacks
through freezer doors and loading bays
in a raucous and rhythmic dance of machinery and labor.
We do not see the sun, arriving before dawn, leaving under
cover of flickering street lights, trudging back to our pick-ups,
over the thin sheet of crusty snow. We rub our hands together
in the cab, our breath rising in clouds from chapped lips,
waiting for the heater to kick in.
Every morning in the blackness of the predawn, I stop for coffee,
mostly to see the cute girl who opens up the café.
I think she likes me, but we are both shy.
And every Saturday when the factory finally stutters to a halt
after six consecutive twelve-hour days
we make our way to the Blue Moon and drink tallboys
of Busch and Coors, uncorking a riotous party that drowns out
the rest of the bar and other patrons shoot us dirty looks.
We rejoice in the labor and time-and-a-half
that our youth allows because it means we still have
a lifetime of possibility before us,
because it means we still have time—
for what, we do not know, but that is the
intoxicating promise of youth.
Bio: Forrest Miller
I grew up in the small towns of rural Vermont. I spent much of my childhood wandering the woods, catching frogs, climbing trees, and paying attention to birds and insects. I've spent much of my life feeling slightly out of step with the people and places around me. While many of my peers were busy discovering themselves, life asked me to grow up pretty quickly. The woods were often the place where I felt most at home.
When it was time to head off for college, I flung myself as far west as I could go, ending up in Billings, Montana, my first experience living in the West. Later I spent time living in Grand Junction, Colorado, where Aspens first began. Not long after that, I moved to Oregon without knowing much about the Pacific Northwest. I thought I'd stay for a little while. Instead, I fell in love with the place and spent the next fifteen years exploring as much of Oregon as I could. Somewhere along the way, it quietly became home.
Last fall, life brought me back to Vermont. I hadn't expected to return after so many years away, but I'm grateful to be close to family again. These days I find myself carrying two homes with me. I still think of Oregon as home, and I miss it often, but returning has also helped me see Vermont with fresh eyes and a deeper appreciation for the place that first taught me to love forests, rivers, mountains, and the small communities scattered among them.
I've never been especially interested in grand narratives or extraordinary lives. I'm drawn to ordinary people, working-class communities, and the landscapes that quietly shape them.
My poems usually begin with a place—a trail, a river, a mountain town, a plum tree—and grow into questions about memory, belonging, work, relationships, and the ways we continue carrying home with us long after we've left it.