Yosemite

a poem of our national parks

We two, in Tuolumne, watch the sun
Emerge, ignite the meadow, burn the trees.
To joke, I make the mule deer turn and run
Within a forest laced with hidden leas.
One winding road leads to the valley floor,
Where massifs, gray and balding, lend their shade
To sandaled tourists come to hear the roar
And rage of rivers falling to the glade.
We wait in traffic, wait to park. We wait
To board the buses. You don't mind the pace.
"Impatience is an unbecoming trait.
Why rush in such a time-arresting place?"
We two, and newly wed, drive up and out
As evening falls on our unending route.