The time came when we began to realize rules were not the rule.
Rules were little intricate homes and stadia we built inside the rule.
Our minuscule adventure of living and planning, judging and deciding,
Crying or crowing about our random results would be over soon,
Whereas we preferred to survey the immediate landscape, touch hands,
And think that the years were not behind us but hazy and marvelous
As mountains, still to be lived. A saddle of red sandstone sagged
From that perspective like a half-fallen drapery from a pale marble sculpture,
A shawl from the shoulders of a young person proud of bare shoulders,
Revealing the greyish-green mass of the laccolith beyond that rested
Death's weary head on the neck of that airy maiden. Children
Got out of a navy-blue minivan in the foreground with their mother
Who read the brass plaque affixed to the settler's homestead. Did they live
And die here? Yes, they did. It's so small. It's so small. It's so small. How
Did they all fit? Things were harder then, honey. Be grateful. Can we go?
Mom? Mom? Can I sit in the front seat this time? It's still not unlocked.
You have to sit in the back. You're too small. It's not safe. That's the rule.
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