8-23-15
Today we share an apocalyptic sun
with the land of a thousand summers.
That land, past our stone’s arc
picketed by ragged ranges,
is typically presented for our enjoyment.
Today it is a basin of savage fire.
The beaches and trails we claim
do not belong to us,
any more than the fertile rake of the soil.
While we weary, fret for old growths,
and our lungs become gently silted,
others are driven before the indiscriminate prod.
Their abandoned dooryards a collection of char,
sowing rows of live embers.
They will grow into memory’s shadow
of unquenchable fear.
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