Bryce Canyon is aglow with light
even as we await sunrise,
the Hoodoo figures the ancients
saw as frozen people,
radiant though long-ago-cursed
into this silent waiting.
Their golden-orange shapes
chuckle with color all over the place.
Our intention turns us back
to look where the sun’s first
diamond is flirting, still hidden.
The turtle formation lost its head
when no one saw or heard.
This world created
by some artist’s erosion
holds its own secrets,
its own lettings go and crashes,
as hidden as the sun
while we wait and shiver.
This dawn we persist, though,
catch the sun’s first glimmer.
Most days its arrival is
like the canyon’s slow demolition.
Suddenly we notice, after the fact,
that someone said, “Let there be light!”
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