a canyon has words, too,
much more than echo, echo.
a canyon has steep walls
and an empty stomach,
a canyon has willpower.

i am a red red clay.
i am composed of historical elements.
i create fossils within my walls.
i allow time to wear me away.

piece by piece i am made into something different,
season by season i become another shape.

there is something priceless in
an inability to maintain the original image.
something magnanimous in my walls
corroding, eroding, grating down to bare essentials
and showing you a slideshow of your life.
you began here, in this darkest layer,
and you grew up during the sunshine of these particles.
you grew old here, in the greyer years;
you broke my heart here, in these red lines.
red like mississippi clay, red like oxygenated blood.

piece by piece i become another shape,
season by season i am made into something new.