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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Controlled Burns
Sam Calhoun
In the ashes of controlled burns
are parched stems
of a woodland fern,
and melted plastic of something
left from a campsite trip,
gone astray like that one
blaze who jumped over the fire line,
like some student writing
a last minute essay,
scribbling over margins,
seeking new boundaries
to draw in charcoal.
There won’t be any photographers
this year standing on that rock outcrop
where the road bends around the mountain,
nor any hikers exploring the barren landscape.
Only the return of those home owners
looking for something left unscathed
will bring life this land.
So much joy can be found
in a box of pictures,
some disfigured bottle of wine,
and maybe the chance to scratch a revision
to their dictionaries.