Cliff Dwellers
Between Clarkdale and Sedona
our train snails the brown
Rio Verde, its copper-veined cliffs.
After appetizers and a champagne toast,
I leave my velvet seat in the vintage coach
for an open-air gondola car.
Contemplating Sinagua cliff-dwellers
I wonder what it would be like to live
in an abandoned sky-cave
instead of my ground-floor apartment.
To access my front door by climbing
a wooden ladder, or worry
my visiting grandson might plunge
from the portal like a bald baby bird.
Now that my hands shake
and can no longer grip a lattice of rungs,
instead of mock threats
of stranding me on an icefloe,
my sons might offer
to launch me from the ledge.
I fancy myself as an ancient cliff dweller
in lieu of getting nauseous atop a steep
flight of subway stairs, and avoiding
my friend’s penthouse balcony.
Hawk-eyed, loving my view,
there would be less need
for this petrified poem,
more time for painting cave walls.
Author: Donna Langevin
Photo: Say Cheeze Studios on Unsplash
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