The last summer we saw the sun
we didn’t camp
since it would have been no fun
without the fire
contained,
companionable,
while marshmallows
carefully were
scorched.
The last summer we saw the sun
we watched trees become
candles,
torches,
flinging flames
onto roofs,
racing unrelentingly
across fields and forests.
The last time we saw the sun
bright in a blue sky,
casting shade,
growing shadows,
was before this time
of the burnt-orange disc
that sheds faint light
through a smoky dome.
The last summer we saw the sun
we recognized
that Beijing’s skies
had become our own.
Moving Paradigms 