The Canyon is Calling

This poem, written by my great great Grandmother often enters my thoughts these days:

The canyon is calling with soothing refrain

The valley is seething with heat.

The young of the forest are roving again

In the depths of their mountain retreat

I long to rest there in the shade of the trees,

And drink from the brooklet so cool,

With mind and with heart as completely at ease

As lilies that float on the pool.

The song of a thrush and the whiff of perfume

Caught up by zephyr or air

Would bring me respite from the heat and the gloom.

I long, how I long to be there.

The canyon is calling with wild luring strain;

A chant that the wood fairies know.

I cannot ignore it, resistance is vain

The canyon is calling. I go.

I never understood how lucky I was to work up the canyon. Being in Idaho, where there are no canyons, has been a bit of a challenge. Just as the words in this poem say "I cannot ignore it, resistance is vain, The canyon is calling. I go" Oh, how I wish I could follow this luring stain! My need for the canyon never goes away, and I long, how I long to be there.