Canyon Country

The bend, sharp thrust, and color 
Of this land abide the centuries 
Unchanged. Earth keeps another time 
Than man, and soon and late inters 
Each vanished traveler in her dust. 

Edith Melissa came this way 
Once in the long-ago, late winter weather 
Of seventy-two. Snow doubtless lingered 
Near cedars, and frosted the red bluffs’ 
Tableland. Silent in cold starlight, 
Or stirring to chill dawns, riding 
The lean fierce beauty of this time-carved land
She knew the towering presence of primeval cliff
Always the long, bold line 
Thrusting vermillion skyward. 

Daughter and wife to pioneers 
Had she grown weary of the male demand 
For newer horizons, and progeny? 
Schooled in the cost of wilderness 
Did heart and bone turn from another venture
Farther on? Yield at the last goodbye 
To tears of mutiny? Or spirit will 
Obedience to the end? 

Answers are hid with other ghosts 
Of this still empty land. 
Beyond a few remaining poplars 
And the vacant walls in one far field 
Editha Melissa lies — once of the green hills
Of New York — and her eleventh baby. 
Grave place of days and years is rounded 
In two words: “Johnson’s Canyon.”