Primrose Vale (for Michael J. Miller)

The spark appears in a notch,

or groove, between two hills

aspiring to the title mountain,

and extends like a burnished

thread of gunpowder marking

the way to an explosion—this

full-blown day with the power

to cast spells in shadows upon

the rock faces on the opposite

side of the valley. And I look

once more in the space between

where I often find you carving

a decisive path to cover distances

separating fixed points of interest,

pausing over clumps of beavertail,

your hat a tracking beacon as you

slip from one form of shade

to another—ocotillo or a saguaro

damaged by careless off-roaders

you wish were never here—

flattening sprays of primrose

blanketing this vale like a child

reluctant to leave their bed. But

seasons are sure to be different

this year. I see that as early as

October when I finally emerge

from my hydrocarbon vault just

to hear the wind carry the voices

of all my dead. They chatter

in the background of a baseball

broadcast drifting down the hall

from my office and convince me

to slip off to the machines for two

bags of chips—one for me and

my uncle who is salty and sweet

at the same time in a fashion that

now feels—not so vaguely—like

looking in a mirror. Then I make

a cup of coffee for my dad who

drinks the stuff nearly any time

of day—slurping a bit too loudly.

From her reclining throne, mom

holds court, balancing the tension

between our fear and admiration

on the tips of crochet needles she

clicks faster than the legs of Shane

Victorino—the Flyin’ Hawaiian—

going first to third on a single.

I entertain them all tonight beside

the first fire of a new season while

searching the skies for Greek

archetypes and capital satellites

spinning in reverse across this

cyclorama where I catch a glimpse

of my college pal in pre-cancer days

firing a baseball past to my lost youth.

I toss a length of juniper on the blaze

and watch it burn from both ends then

mutter something about how Nihilists

cannot seem to outrun metaphors when

you—who is already oddly comfortable

with these ghosts—scold me for not

noticing flames are splendid dancers.