There were some that I loved, 
but they didn’t love me.
Then you said: “Look! Stand here!” 
and we looked at the light.

You noticed it first.
Sunlight glowed red reflecting off the red rock mesas.
I thought how every evening the sun shines off the rocks
yet goes unnoticed. Who thanked the flower in July,
when she offered her breast to the bee?
I thought, Nothing is wasted, ever. 
Even the deepest crevices 
of the red rock mesas reflect light 
when the sun sweeps over their surface 
like a broom. Oh, every crumb 
is swept up-not a crumb of love
is wasted, ever. In summer, the roots 
of plants tangle to crack 
rock and absorb the light of sun.

So in winter, rocks mirror light.
See how the disheveled red rock 
bares herself like a chrysalis 
revealing her colors!

In summer, when we climbed
the white cliffs, swallows had moved in
and built nests on the rockface,
and we watched cliff swallows 
dive and tumble through air.

As we ascended the mesas, 
our footsteps barely left a trace. 
Now our dreams, battered as a nest 
in winter storm, hang by a thread. 

Oh the bee is petulant, but the petal,
though now a memory, has sent 
her love letter to the world:
In the hive, the honey:
beneath the rock,
the seed.