Cracked and dry
boot pounded dirt packed
down, gladly crushed
Red stone trail
I thank for holding me up,
taking root
not only mine, but goldenrod
that each May sprouts
up new to thrash
its fists in the wind,
like an infant.
I meet them then and know them
only as shoots,
always surprised to breathe.
I walk with them
and in the winter
walk where they were,
in tribute.
At the top of Spyglass ridge
I sit for hours looking through
the rosewood bushes,
along electric tower
lines falling into and over
the rim of the canyon,
out of sight.