Read by the author.
Who could care about the probability of love when brought, like us, to this
world under endless darkness? A great mountain engulfed
by a greater ocean, we formed, ever so slowly, from tectonic plates
colliding, one mounting another, riding the way time rode
sunlight and moonlight across the icy surface of the water.
We learned, with time, to view and invent this life from the depths
where beasts, now extinct, bellowed and belted their brutal songs.
All that remains of them, and of that time, are the bones we buried, burnished
beneath beds of sandstone and limestone, made unknown and then known
when the waves and the darkness dried up. The wind whittled us
like a restless sculptor pacing around a slab of marble, imitating
God with a hammer and chisel. In the Garden of the Gods, we endured
the erotics of erosion. Loss. Change. What we couldn’t change
and what we lost to time made us more fully ourselves
and full of ourselves. We fooled around and made a fool of God.
We, in our faulted and faultless glamour, became a brand-new home
for the bighorn sheep and lions, the canyon wrens and white-throated swifts
swinging low below a cloudless sky. We drank the sky and threw up
acres of wild prairie grass, piñon juniper, and ponderosa pine
from the remains of ancestral ranges and sand dunes. Maybe this was love
after all. We remained. We reinvented ourselves. We let the weaker parts of us go
and decided, despite our egos and the tests of time, to test time and show
how miraculous it is to exist. To live beyond survival. To be alive
twice and thrice, and countless times to find one with and within another.
What are the chances of that? One in a thousand. One in a million. One in love
proves and is living proof that anything and everything is probable
through seasons counting on rain to come down like a downpour of stars.
Seasons of Never This Again. Seasons of This Could Last Forever.
