they’d never been there in the summer before
when the white morning sky
burns the mist like snowy cinders

where the gold dog rolls in mush green
and red berries on the lawn
in colors like nothing we’ve seen back home

where I dream of a rich old witch
and you dream of your father
young and warm, alive

where the back dirt roads are so dense
they are untouched by raindrops
whose intent is to harmonize with lost gulls

and the fireflies, oh the fireflies
waken at dusk and lighten us
deeper than the crackling campfire of our vanishing autumns