now minus 280 million years equals
the time when the Fountain was deposited
in gushing rivers, pregnant with coarse grit
laying it flat to rest in one thick sedimentary package
over time horizons unfathomable
Yesterday, today, tomorrow
all times I fathom,
the Flatirons,
jut up to fill my vision, everywhere here at home
ironed to red by years of the geologic pressures of deep burial
their shoulders donned in ponderosa green (i love those trees)
splotched lime by lichen (boulders oldest inhabitants)
they play often with light and shadow, air and water
crisp autumn sunsets juxtapose shadows and filtered lightbeams
a white veil after winter storms
multilayered cloud decks settle over in spring,
and foggy tendrils search
then in dry summers, plumes of heavy smoke
and, wherever I choose to play at home,
when I touch the variegated rocks with hand and foot,
feel ancient gritstone splayed out above, below, beyond,
it is as if I am suddenly floating, and both color and spirit
rush up to meet me, to awe me,
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