We are what we love

The sun rises over huge wingate bluffs,
the clouds a collage of peach, lavender and white.
The cottonwood tree between the sun and me
has heart shaped branches,
the winter bleached leaves that remain
a lace of lighted blessings.

Breakfast is gentle and the guitar is passed while coffee brews.

At the rock, we take turns sinking our hands
deep into the crack,
breathing with the stone, almost sweating in the spring air.
Our bodies become a dance with each climb,
twisting, pulling, easing up routes named
rock lobster, golden crown and dental floss tycoon.
A waxing moon peeks around the desert varnish corner.
Ravens soar below us, calling across the basin.

This place is magic. We all know.

Later, the sun sets in a blaze of gold light,
red cliffs fade to deep purple
and there are no words for what
I've left and found on the rock.
The light fills me as I write with swollen and bruides hands.

To be grateful is all.
We are what we love.