A Line In The Sand

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 Love, love is a verb

Love is a doing thing

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I heard about the smoke, the blaze, the sequel and my mind wandered to costs. Maybe these fires are the punishment for such beauty, the haze blocking out the gorgeous vistas your pictures (and mine, definitely mine) could never hope to fully realize. Maybe this is a trade-off of sorts. Yes, you can enjoy my beauty. You can scale my peaks, ride my rapids, chase my deer, but you will pay. We will not sell you Manhattan for twenty-five beads again. Fool me once, shame on me. Tread on me again, and I will show you my righteous fury. 

This way of thinking, is of course, ludicrous. Incredibly stupid. Flames catch, tinder burns, smoke carries. And I fret away hopelessly. Delusion and imagination have their place, but understanding the potential for another lost summer is not it. 

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Teardrop on the fire

Feathers on my breath

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I stare into my Marshmallow Mateys, your 'bad oatmeal' weighing heavy on my mind. The folds and rivets sway, construction in the summer. Minnesota roads, they say, have two seasons- Winter and Construction. I'll hold onto my miniature hard hats as long as I can, my gray matter constantly in flux.

Still, you write about backsliding, and I'm wondering about tightropes. We walked across bridges at work on Friday, imaginary lines of balance. Four-and-five year olds children with nothing to lose but everything to prove, pursed lips and furrowed brows. I closed my eyes and made it two feet. And then fell over. Which says something. But what? Maybe we burn not to polish our edges but to sharpen them. Maybe we never, ever reach the burn line, but spend a whole life reaching. Maybe I'm spouting nonsense, like a leaky tap that got accidentally nudged on.

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You're stumbling into all

You're stumbling into all

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This is the West that I remember, this is the oldest story I can seem to tell. I read 'The Oregon Trail is The Oregon Trail' again recently and decided to try my hand. I should leave my hand to it's better uses perhaps, like quiet back-rubs at naptime and the hardest high five a three year old can muster. 

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The Oregon Trail is the Oregon Trail, but I’m stuck in ruts.

I remember, like scars, wagon wheels drug across your

dry skin. Broken axles etched across your shoulder, as I

trace history. Your freckles, my stars, your flesh, my map.

This trail is treacherous, and we have everything to lose.

(A thief stole an ox and our extra rations and the words

that edged between us.) That floated.

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But we burn to ash, and all I can think is that this is the West I know. And that this is the oldest story I can seem to remember.