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.