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All time is here;
ancient seas, marsh, salt.
I walk up a flaming canyon.
Stones radiant with heat,
prickly pear, sage and rabbit-brush--
bare scorched things.
I clamber over a dry waterfall,
inhale warmth from pale baked clay,
scatter panting lizards.
In and out of light and shadow,
the path narrows to a solitary juniper
against a sliver of sky.
On slopes claret-cup cactus blossom--
Light is scarlet, light is flowing.
Sand shifts, becomes damp, oozing.
Cottonwood leaves dance
to a wind not felt.
I hear a ticking on boulders,
a flare of water over a shelf
of cool fern and a slow gathering
of watery blooms, pink and yellow
--wandering seeds made fruitful.
I too am here.

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Poem copyright 1999; all rights reserved. (If you wish to copy or translate this poem, please contact its author)
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