Chesterfield Gorge

In the silence, they shift,

stirring skeleton leaves

and creating nectarines in my eyelids

until I open my eyes and the color drains

and for a breath, I live in black and white and then red, too, until slowly the color comes back to the skin of my hands.

You move your lips to imitate the wind

and looking at the layered stone,

I wonder how they came to rest upon one another,

how many positions they tried before they came to rest

before they decided,

“this is the one.”

How long did it take to get comfortable?

For all to settle into place?

It wasn’t until then that the moss crowded in and you could hear the soft brush, the subtle whistle of the wind, and now, the moss lines the rocks and the rocks embed the hills and the trees extend from the rocks.

And then we’ve lost the sun,

shifted behind the ridge,

beyond my periphery.