I had forgotten about the fire
that curled bright tongues
up the canyon in May. But this
early September day I drive
through goldening leaves
and come to the place where
limbs are black. The trees
on these hills will never come back.
Char. Barren limb. And beneath
the ghost trunks, the grass already green.
How soon things change. Except when
they don’t. Except when the change
goes slow. How today I find myself
alone driving fifty through the burn,
and the dark branches stir in the adamant
wind, and the road unhinges
like a door, like a blur.