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Once an inland sea, waves alive to the wind
until the land rose and drained, and a river
made its slow cutting through two million years.
The ragged sea became a canyon so vast
the eye doubts what it sees even as
it scribes the vista on the brain.

Our son carries all that is left of you
in his pocket. Halfway down the trail with red
Supai sandstone all around, the view
grabbing his breath, he takes some ash to scatter,
remembering how you helped him feed ducks
with crumbs from another plastic bag.

With a fling of the arm, he tosses you off the trail,
a canyon wind catching the fine ash in an upward spiral
until he imagines you suspended before him.
Another gust carries you away to drop
past Hermit shale and Redwall limestone
forever and ever into what went before.

      — Lucile Blanchard