Constellations quiver in the darkness of the Grand Canyon.
I incant near whisper my gratitude.
Galaxies harmonize with the moon goddess
as the sunrise crescendos softly, then so loud
the crickets and the birds call out rapture.
I gasp myself, find myself alive, my body as shadowed
as the crevices, murmur of fermata
as steep shadows purple, brighten into dusky cadence.
Pink, tan, andante stratigraphy. Con affecto held breath.
Relief peering over the edge where gods have shuffled,
their warm breath on my ear. I tremble their humble song.

[Kim Malinowski is a lover of words. She is the author of Home, Phantom Reflection, Buffy’s House of Mirrors, Clutching Narcissus, Reverberations, and Death: A Love Story. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Rhysling Award. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable.]