I descend from
neither the North nor South Rims
of the Canyon,
but from the west,
through Hualapai holdings.
Without benefit of burro or boots,
I barge in by SUV
to picnic on a blanket of talus
while the Colorado
quietly erodes the rock.
Despite turquoise gleams
reflected from
rowboats roped to poles,
the river ignores
my humble sandwich on white.
To touch the timelessness
of its magnificent,
gentle verve,
I dip my feet in
the cold, clear reflection.
What does the river expect
from the clay I’m made?
Without recompense,
I apologize.
I’ve never learned to skip stones.
Sherrill Alesiak strives to see what others don’t see and to concretize her vision through her writing. Her poetry or fiction has appeared in publications as Alligator Juniper, The MacGuffin, Kalliope, Princeton Arts Review, The Owen Wister Review, Blueline, 34th Parallel and in the poetry anthology, Eating Her Wedding Dress.
