Antelope Canyon, Feb. 2017
We sit in two long rows in an open-bed truck
that heads down the highway and then a bumpy gravel road.
We park behind more tour trucks in an open field.
The guide gathers the group, warns us not to wander
and we head for the clay-colored walls ahead.
We walk single-file through the slit,
cracked open from top to bottom.
At once, we are in another world.
Silence. Ancient and deep. We whisper now.
The tour guide shows us how the light shafts appear
when you throw dirt into the beam.
He makes us look closely at the shapes
worn by wind and water and sun and cold.
He says, See George Washington’s nose?
He says, See Lincoln’s chin?
No, no, I don’t. The minute
I walked inside this ancient womb,
I saw the folds and pinks and corals and browns
and scars and pain of an old woman’s insides.
The long-ago echoes of birth and life swirl all around us.
The whoosh of heartbeats, the unexpected rush of wind
deep inside the bowels of the canyon.
Here, I feel her sorrow and loss.
Here, I feel her ageless hope.
Here, I am home.
Need to work on this some more.