The fire

A burning broom

sweeps through the pines

and douglas firs

the meadows

and the shacks,

the rusting Chevy pickup

up on cinder blocks

since the summer of '69.

Boils the beavers

in their ponds,

roasts the squirrels

racing through the crowns

of ponderosa pines

dry as last year's

Christmas trees in March

flaming like a torch.

Incinerates the pair

of rocking chairs

that hold a thousand memories

of sunset views

and berry pie-smeared nephews

running barefoot on the porch

while the crickets commenced

to sing their evening chorus.

That straw-haired kid

who put that Chevy up

on the cinder blocks,

promised that he'd be back

to fix it up as soon as

he finished his tour.

He never made it back

any closer than Seattle

and the odd holiday or birthday

for a few hours that passed too fast.

She sits on one of those green

scallop-shaped metal lawn chairs

in the safety of the valley

with a box of photographs resting on her lap

watching the infernal tongues devour

what she'd assumed somehow was eternal.