Published June 18, 2026 04:12PM<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
On May 29, writer, performer, and cultural worker Bobby LeFebre took the stage at the Outside Summit<\/a> in Denver to deliver \u201cThe Cathedral,\u201d an original poem written for the gathering, which marked the second day of the Outside Days Industry Conference<\/a>, which preceded the weekend Outside Days festival<\/a>.<\/p>\n LeFebre, who was the Poet Laureate of Colorado from 2019 to 2023, evoked the wild as a place of beauty, belonging, humility, and renewal. He also asked us to consider what we lose when the convenience of the \u201cglowing little worlds we carry in our pockets\u201d keeps us removed from the living world.<\/p>\n For many in the room that morning, LeFebre\u2019s words became one of the most affecting moments of the Summit. In response to numerous requests for the text of the poem, we are sharing it here in full, along with a video of his live performance.<\/p>\n By Bobby LeFebre<\/em><\/p>\n The cathedral is calling again. Its vaulted chambers rise in ranges and ridgelines. The cathedral is alive.<\/p>\n It breathes fog through our valleys. Let\u2019s get outside.<\/p>\n The cathedral greets you before sunrise. And there you are. The cathedral knows your name. Knows the metallic taste of altitude. It waits for you there.<\/p>\n At the edge of the ridge. \u201cLook. Let\u2019s get outside.<\/p>\n Because something has happened to us. Our thumbs flick upward endlessly And still The smell of rain before it arrives. Colorado is a Spanish word. Red like river silt. Long before trail maps, Knew it was not simply scenery.<\/p>\n It was relative. And maybe that is what we are all searching for now.<\/p>\n Remembrance.<\/p>\n Because out there, The cathedral was never built Only participants; relatives.<\/p>\n For the climbers For the river guides For the skiers carving scripture For the children For the lovers tangled together For the ones trying to remember Let\u2019s get outside.<\/p>\n The cathedral does not end.<\/p>\n It stretches through forests and deserts, The cathedral has no walls. It belongs to everyone So get outside.<\/p>\n Let the mountain humble you. Let the cathedral crack you open. Because out there Something wild and holy. The cathedral.<\/p>\n Its doors are open. The earth\u2014 So get outside.<\/p>\n There is still timeThe Cathedral<\/h2>\n
Its steeple stretching beyond sight.
Blue in the morning.
Black and burning with stars by nightfall.<\/p>\n
Granite shoulders carrying snowmelt and thunder.
Its stained glass pours through aspens in October.
Through alpine lakes holding entire heavens inside their trembling surface.
Its choir moves through pine needles.
Through bike chains clicking over dirt.
Through tent flaps snapping awake before dawn.<\/p>\n
Drags rivers through stone.
It scatters wildflowers across entire hillsides
like confetti from the hands of some ancient god
drunk on beauty.<\/p>\n
Breath rising visible into the morning.
Headlamps dissolving into the distance.
Boots crunching gravel at the trailhead.
The body preparing itself
to enter something sacred.<\/p>\n
Heart already beginning to climb.<\/p>\n
It knows the sound of your exhale
switchback after switchback.<\/p>\n
The salt drying white against your skin.
The ache in your calves.
The blister forming beneath the heel.
The exact moment exhaustion
transforms suffering into revelation.<\/p>\n
At the summit where the wind
places both hands upon your face
like a blessing
and says:<\/p>\n
Look what has survived.\u201d<\/p>\n
We have mistaken convenience for living.
Mistaken scrolling for witnessing.
Mistaken being connected
for being held.<\/p>\n
while entire sunsets disappear behind us.<\/p>\n
something ancient inside the body
remembers.<\/p>\n
The language of fire.
The holiness of cold water.
The way silence can repair a human being
faster than almost anything else.<\/p>\n
\u201cColored red.\u201d<\/p>\n
Like fountain formation.
Like the bleeding bark of the Ponderosa Pine.<\/p>\n
lift tickets,
and branded fleece,
the original peoples of this land
understood the mountain.<\/p>\n
Teacher.
Deity.
Mirror.<\/p>\n
the soul stands up straighter.
Fear sharpens into presence.
Fatigue breaks open into clarity.
And wonder floods the body.<\/p>\n
for spectators.<\/p>\n
hanging fingertip miracles from sandstone walls.<\/p>\n
traversing prophecy in whitewater.<\/p>\n
into untouched snow.<\/p>\n
with sappy hands,
muddy knees,
entire galaxies reflected in their eyes.<\/p>\n
inside sleeping bags before slumber.<\/p>\n
their body is an animal
still capable of astonishment.<\/p>\n
coastlines and ice fields,
through adobe villages
breathing pi\u00f1on wood into winter air.<\/p>\n
No borders.
No gatekeepers.
No velvet rope separating people by pocketbook.<\/p>\n
and no one at all.<\/p>\n
Let the river wake something sleeping in your blood.
Let the weather rearrange your plans.
Let the expansiveness remind you
how small you are
and how miraculous that is.<\/p>\n
Let it flood your chest with sky.
Let it teach your body
the forgotten language of awe.<\/p>\n
past the noise,
past the urgency,
past the glowing little worlds we carry in our pockets,
something immense is waiting.<\/p>\n
Something older than empire.
Older than algorithm.<\/p>\n
Its altar stretches from horizon to horizon.
Its bells are ringing through the peaks.<\/p>\n
unbelievably,
still despite us,
after all we have taken,
claimed,
pretended to own\u2014
keeps inviting us back.<\/p>\n
to remember who and what we really are.<\/p>\n