By Michael Jones
This valley is shaped by the words
we use to name it.
Clay rises along cliff faces,
pressing the earth into towers.
When they called the gorge cathedral,
they gave those to follow
another imagination of the stone.
It’s all Gothic architecture,
chiseled with the careful attention
by a mason of rain and snow.
As the wind whispers an organ
across deceptively soft earth,
the spires curl into the shaking fingers
of the withered old priest
who taught me to serve others
from the periphery.
Remember that while we may be seen,
we are not to be noticed.
We must never be distractions.
Why would we want to be?
Why would we do anything
but lean into this clay
and pray
until our bones become carved reliefs?
