Some poets have found
they can live in the desert
and find wild Mary’s world, but
I find it sorely lacking
both field and sparrow.
Some say the red rock and cacti
are their own kind of poetry;
whereas, I find not a word.
As if they vanished into dust with
ancient civilizations.
Just to make a liar of me,
the Grand Canyon stands immense and breathless
commanding silence. Indeed there are
no words–until the canyon shape shifts
into pure poetry
Continuously transforming into living words,
each line of pink carefully layered onto
a symphony of purples, building to a crescendo
rising to kiss the orange of the morning sun.