Walking the Burn

Here the roots blew,
sent milk quartz flying.

And here quartz fields are untouched,
surrounded by a ring of char.

I want to say my love is quartz with no reason
for what is spared but wind and water.

Everywhere are black skeletons
of juniper, more beautiful stripped and stark.

They’ll stand a hundred years.
Nothing will eat them. They don’t rot.

I want to say each one
is a word in my hardest love story.

Here is the ancient ponderosa in its black skin and arms,
hope already drilled from its massive trunk.

The flow beneath singed bark bleeds sweet sap.
Though needles on high are green, it won’t survive.

I want to say its beetles
are my apologies.

Here is where wild grasses stopped
burning. Step over the amazing line.

What burned a month ago is now
greener than what was saved.

I want to say that field is my face
before and after you.

2012