You, in the tomb-like caves
of the cliff-dwellers,
did not find it too dark
to see clearly.
To see that to reach your destination,
first you have to run away.
And when you found the broken pieces
of the jars that held their life,
that held their water,
that carried their colored stories on their surfaces,
you picked one up.
You held it in your hand;
you brushed away the chipping paint.
The canyon was so deep
that you could not hear
when the pottery shattered.
Did you know, then, standing on the northern cliffs,
that others leave their lives behind
so that we may cross without falling?