I slide the sheet of raw cookies
into the oven. Douglas fir trees sit still,
leaning into the canyon, wafting scents of maturity.

I missed the timer. The cookies
burned; black and hard
in a matter of minutes.

that same fir forest
caught too much heat.
A single spark,
in a few centuries of growth,
and everything was burnt
and hard. And standing,
to be remembered.

Still in loss,
we reach began again.

This time my eyes stayed home.
This time with the deep breath
that comes after ruin.

The fir cones cuddled
befriended by the fire
cleared mineral rich ground.

When the rains returned,
thousands of seedlings rose as
small green monuments
in the headlands of recovery.

That is how
attention works.
How resolve roots itself.
In their world.
In mine. In ours.