Grand Canyon.

The autumn hues of its structure, trails leading deeper
down an abyss, and travelers trusting that for them
it would not be like that fall into hell they were told of in Sunday school.

They would descend but rise again,
Live to tell others about the beauty they discovered.

Everybody wants to discover beauty. Everybody wants to be in love.

Out of the canyon, the house of walls and sky,
you could ascend on the back of a burro, slow and steady.

Out of love one might never rise.

Out of love one suddenly hears the pigeons on rooftops,
and on the ledges, cooing like heavy hearts.

Out of love Spring’s blossoms are garish.

All this time you’ve believed in the impossible.

The stars did not shine for your wishes.

The linden tree’s scent did not remind you of your lover’s sleeve.

It wasn’t really magic that put the showgirl back together again.

You believed in the impossible only as long as it believed in you.

Losing love you may as well have withdrew into a cave,
scratched pictures on the walls with a stone,
survived on small animals- so primitive you were.

You found life without love crude, simple, without levity.

A complete going back to the beginning
Of a dark mystery.