Winding, Crooked, and Climbing

A year ago this week I was alone with the desert. There are good alones and lonely alones but the Colorado red rock plateau and I, lovers that we are, do splendidly together.

It's not that she is always a gentle lover or that she hasn't brought about heart pounding fear. I have a fear addiction now thanks to her and the many ways she can quicken my pulse.

Sometimes the beauty and grandeur can be too much, almost more than one can bear. It hurts and sears and brings on a melancholy that tears and claws at your soul til you want to weep with the sorrow of mortality.

But it pushes me closer to the edge and into deeper faster waters and into narrower slots. Despite how phallic in appearance this place can be with its spires and its red gorged tumescence, for me she is without question a woman whom I penetrate and burrow and bathe in her water pockets and her running fluids and insert myself deep into her chasms and fissures.

When she cries she can tumble you down a narrow canyon along with the boulders and trees and strip you of clothes and skin and fill you with red mud. Or she can kiss you with cerulean eyes and red lips while she convinces you that you are of no more importance than a single passing hour inside her timeless heart.

She seems to know that there will come a day when she'll scatter me like fine red dust and I'll course inside her and take her name as mine and finally have a lasting love.