It's My Canyon

There is no geography here.

No latitude and longitude.

No weather systems rake this land.

The strata of geologic layers

Completely fabricated

Are as obvious as a massive sleeping tiger

Lying on its side

Stretching toward the artificial horizon.

They are like sections

Of a layer cake

In glistening onyx and amber

Safire and diamond.

 

This canyon

Is purely the manufacture

Of my creative imagination.

The only footprints are mine.

There are no cities

Along the compass points.

Nobody comes here but me.

 

And, all I do

Is sit on the canyon lip

Gazing into the bottomless abyss

And imagine what it would be

To venture from the edge

And fall into eternities past

Wondering whether I might

Fly full circle

Only to tumble from the sky

In a massive loop.

 

It’s my canyon.

My sky.

Anything is possible.

But I try not to come here

Very often

For fear the geography

And geology

May become real

Some day.