The Canyon

The Canyon

Today I remembered my grandmother

is dead and how much time I’ve spent

scratching black into paper, scuffing

black shoes on the roads I travel. I’m always

a line of footsteps from the edge of an abyss.

My grandmother in her youth, hunched

over dirt excavations in southern Greece

and peered back through time to where

bones carried flesh, armor, and spears

as soldiers defending homes against death.

In her last years also at the wide white rim

of her bedside she noticed the drop down

to the ancient weavings of a crimson rug

and fought to keep her weight from slipping.

I once found myself at the Grand Canyon

at the end of a rock trail that stretched out

like any broken bridge: leaning into the air

as if it had wings. I wanted to stand by something

more steady than myself as I stared into the crags

searching for the river that cut these chasms.

The depths stared back at me, stubborn cliffs

and shadows feeling their way out. How long

can this go on, carving notches like a knife?

My shoes scraped closer and I stepped back,

but watched the slope of the valley slide

deeper into a rift I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear.

I didn’t descend there then, but I can’t forget

the way even dust seemed to tumble down.

Yet I also recall looking across from the edge

and seeing the shadows of clouds grazing

green plains, peacefully tugging at my waist

to cross over with them to the other side.

It’s difficult to last. These words, this ink

is like the bouquet of lilies today laid graveside

and tomorrow wilted. What is there to fear?

My fingers that have pressed the pen for hours

retain its shape like a worn old mattress

after a body is removed. My grandmother

loved to struggle up mountains, but for me

the coming down is hard, easy to stumble

or run too quick. Better to be careful

where I place my feet, my hands, my eyes.

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I haven't posted a poem in a while, I've definitely been writing away. I wrote this about a month ago and I wasn't sure if it was good or not so I left it a while and came back to it today to discover that I did like it after all. Death is a very common topic in poetry, but it is so because of how much it affects us and continues to affect us. Even when someone passes on, we can't help but remember them and that recollections shapes us continually. So anyway, I hope you enjoy this poem and, as always, please let me know what you think.