In the sandy haze, the pyramids rise
like apparitions. There is nothing else
visible in this land of sand and rock
and rubble. They have spent a long time
acclimating to the harsh conditions.
It’s hot and dry and gets unbearable,
but still they patiently impose their presence,
having prolonged the inevitable.
They challenge us to think big, to work hard
together, to take the long view.
They assume a kind of cheerleading role.
‘You can do better. Make time count. Be true.’
When you stand close to the stone blocks
and touch their weathered skin, straining to see
the top, you wish your life could be
part of something as extraordinary.
The oldest of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the Great Pyramid of Giza was built in the 26th century B.C., primarily of limestone. Granite blocks in the King’s Chamber weigh up to 80 tons. The structure is approximately 2.5 football fields square, oriented to the four points of the compass, almost 500 feet high, and consists of more than 2 million large stone blocks.
After retiring as curator of historic maps at Princeton University Library, I moved out to Port Townsend, WA, and have traveled widely, preferring remote, natural settings. Since that transition, I’ve published Waypoints (2017), a collection of place poems, Twenty Questions (2019), a chapbook, Delicate Arch (2022), poems and photographs of national parks and monuments, and Galápagos (2023), a collaborative chapbook of my son Andrew’s photographs and my poems.