By Allison Coin

The face bears long
ribbons of navy, blonde, and salmon
columns that rival one another
for space to expand;
they are not content with
hundreds of vertical feet.

Soft gray ripples dilute the
strength of colors, like
tears that blur one’s vision.

I felt small when first
bowing under the weight
of the cliff’s height;
her streaks formed so long before my own being—maybe in a waterwave
that built up to a hard, quick anger
and then slowly dried up and away.
Maybe a glacier, frozen hard,
melted and left these remaining
shapes and edges,
pockets and crimper ledges—
striations of colors marking
the eras that have passed.

But you didn’t see the ribbons;
you only saw the top.

The glare of the sun on the anchors:
and you missed the strange accident
of time and wind, that together
enabled me to move—without wings
or jet propulsion—from the ground
to the sky.






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