Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and when he dies
only the five senses that we know perish with him,
and the other ninety-five remain alive.
– Anton Chekhov (“The Cherry Orchard”)
The past walks here, all the dead
horses and livestock men grazing
a hundred and fifty springs—
all the promises and passion spilled
upon this wild mat of grass and flowers,
naked lovers idly pinching petals
along the creek for centuries
within the mottled shade
these same trees have cast, yet see
to keep alive. We have had
our moments here, left ourselves
so wholly that we rise and rest
among them, add our song
to the canyon, our cries to the sky
to forever make our home.
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