i've wasted my life
ironing your shirts.

but oh, i
have wasted
it willingly.

parent and child, brother and sister, husband and wife

wildfires were misunderstood for most of the 20th century,
the plaque said,
and they were suppressed.
now we know better and,
for the good of the forest,
let them burn.

marching across a meadow of dead trees
(standing at attention, burnt soldiers on a battlefield)
we arrived at rainbow falls.
pretty, you said,
but you're thinking of something else.

look at that, i said,
please look.
it's so majestic.
look at those orange rocks-
look at the misty clouds streaming over the charcoal top of that mountain-
look how big this fallen tree is-
look how steep this drop is-
look at the blue, blue sky.

now we're standing at the foot of the basalt lava pillars called
devil's postpile.
at the foot of the formation,
the crumbled pieces of former pillars
lie fallen, both dignified and undignified.

by teyana lake,
you got out of the car with a sigh
after i'd pulled over for the millionth time
to take in the scenery.

you joined me on the bank, and said,

look at that boy fishing.