I can see new scars on the Eastern hills
Burn marks on the landscape
The charred remains of conifers and oaks
A fire swept through
Again.
It won't be the last.
I can also see
One single California poppy.
Battered by the wind
Holding on strong
A tiny, tender sun
Shining brightly
Against the grey rock
And the faded grass
There will always be
More fires
New scars
And every year
New poppies
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