Echoed on the stone stairs of summer,
Where one August
We walked all the way to the Jackson Staircase
Under a distant warning of storm light.
It was a Chronos of wind following –
Voices from rocks – an inland tourniquet and turquoise skies –
A long silence of afternoon closing in.
And even with our water running out,
Our ankles held, and we return to the charade of the living –
Where among these perfect ruins,
We sensed a fragile calendar of eternity – continuing –
Held in some Planck-length of love.