Poem: Nothing Is Just One Thing
At the rim
before the descent
there is always a moment
when language fails first
A stillness
that does not last
Awe arrives
and takes everything with it
and then, almost immediately,
returns it as questions
What is this
What has been done here
What does it mean
What am I seeing
What am I supposed to see
The canyon does not answer
It layers
Stone upon stone
color upon color
time pressed into silence
until silence begins to speak
Green from a mineral with a name
older than the word for eye
Red from iron
that learned how to rust in air
Black from a varnish
patient enough to wait years
for a surface
Nothing is surface
Everything is becoming
Even what looks still
has traveled
has changed
has been touched by water
by wind
by time
by something we cannot name
without reducing it
We call it geology
as if naming it makes it smaller
but naming only opens more doors
Ancient life
hidden in a word
I once thought belonged to a people
and now belongs to time itself
I laugh at that
at how easily I misunderstand
at how quickly I assume
anything is only what it appears to be
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The canyon corrects gently
Look again
Look longer
Look until the question changes
because it always does
Awe first
then inquiry
then something like love
that cannot remain quiet
Birdsong
tears
the urge to write
to say something equal
to what stands before me
and failing
every time
still trying
because that is the only way
to meet it
Nothing is ever just one thing
Not the canyon
not the color
not the science
not the soul
Beauty is layered
like rock
like memory
like truth
and the secret
if there is one
is not in looking
but in learning
how to see
© Jill Szoo Wilson
