The Kindling Of The Rosy Paper Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now the mountains: you there, where the golden
Things are hidden, and how strange-
Artifacts of her lips where the Indians climbed,
And had children.
The river spills from her vest, goes down through the
Golden lumber,
Divides eventually for tourists; but I wait for
Her in the Bosque beneath
A red sky’s eventual intrusion: words such as filament
Keeping the birds in their particular airs-
All of it was beautiful before the trailer parks were born,
And we came down holding hands-
The sea that dried up during an afternoon’s lunchtime,
Or through the many times I tried
Captivating you, my heart putting on lights:
In its castanet, turning for the joy of your brown hands
Upon the kindling of the rosy paper
I attended as if flames could make beautiful flowers come alive.