Standing at Jack London's grave,
in the earth beneath the red stump
opposite two frontier children haunts,
we ponder the meaning of his last request
not made clear in our brochure.
Descending hill to wolf house ruins,
we jump at nature's eerie sounds.
My irrational fear of rattlesnakes
has me searching for your hand;
a warm touch among the mossy dead.
Burnt-out hull of a dream.
Free standing fireplaces four stories tall
remind us of the floor plan.
An ecosystem thrives
in the empty reflection pool.
We steal kisses in the surrounding grove.
Ironic monuments dissipate
into mid-summer stillness.