Time will tell. It always does.
It makes things happen as named
and unknown elemental powers
and vagaries of life etch, mar, shape,
anoint, dissolve, rebuild those in its sway.
Residual clues on canyon walls or
a woman’s body make earth’s
metronomic spell go deeper, mysterious
as it presses layer upon layer sediment
of all that came, gave, removed, then
completed, leaving all behind.
We, too, are an archeological field
primal as barbaric and elegant wilds,
surrendering and resisting events
pressed upon us, stories soon permanent
as tattoos, our bodies holding
a drift of veil, weight of armor,
blood of thorn, dew of snapdragon.
Beyond skin, bravery and recriminations,
birthings and dirges.
And, too, footprints of strange giants, and
bite of beak, whisper of wing.
We carry it all, as do river beds.
It leaves its mark, time and its associates,
and speaks without remorse or uncertainty.
This forested cliff, this webby cave and steeple of stone
shelter an unruly, glorious design.
So, too, our bodies, every inch a blueprint,
a slow reveal of legacies passed down:
missteps, sacrifice, a holiness of charity.
Yet when we flee these tender husks
what is left are recollections of
confoundment of human life,
a history of havoc and hallelujahs,
and the stunning release from time.
No matter; earth’s secrets outlive all.