The little flags beyond the stream
show, he says, where they think
it all started.
Areas of interest.
God, do I make a blessing
over the smell of burned trees?
The faded Holi colors
of airdropped retardant
mark these bushes saved—
the greenest grass,
past the winter straw,
is where only new remains.
Spring, like liberation,
like fire, begins slow,
and then it comes fast,
if it catches, if the winds blow.
Gotta have our bags packed.
I feed the last girl scout cookies
to the goats, cut my hair on the porch.
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