Rocky Scenery

The beauty of that which can’t
Help you, of that which can’t be

Helped. Not bucolic and not
Idyllic and no water.

The sere face of the deep core
Broken up in surfaces.

Nothing much for the body
But risk, but for awareness,

Sheer stone exhilaration.
Now, why is that? Why that thrill,

Do you think? A little bit
Must be socialization,

Cultural conditioning,
But, little as the body

Stands to gain from fractured stones,
Some of this severe pleasure

Must be, more or less, innate.
Red and buff, mostly silent,

Mostly motionless, the cliffs
Lean back, into the harsh blue

Of noons that obscure the stars,
And the etchings of their lines,

Few beautiful in themselves,
Create, by tens of thousands,

The feeling that being is
Determined to break itself

Down until it turns pure sand
And winks when carried away.