The Grand Canyon: an epic poem
Time has been scribbling for billionsof years, by our counting, which bores Time.
People from all over the globe
stand at the edge, shed nationality,
and--to a person--speak in hushed
tones, if they speak at all. Cubby
squirrels run around like ushers.
Something mystical rises
with warm air, which crows and hawks
and eagles ride casually. Time itself
is the hero of its poem, carving
granite, sandstone, quartz, limestone,
shale--each layer a chapter unspooling
in reds, roses, purples, browns, blues,
tans, and grays above the serpentine
river channel. Towers and turrets of
sandstone and limestone decorate
the rim. A single tree might spring
from a cup of soil on one of these
spires. The mind inquires, but the canyon
simply is and won't discuss geology.
Time promised the essence of earth--
stone--an epic full of love,
and Time keeps writing it,
as we gawk down and across, breathe
temporary air, take useless photographs.
hans ostrom 2024
