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.