(for Dick Schmidt on his 83rd birthday)

In February the setting sun
at just the right angle with enough
snowmelt can sizzle Horsetail Falls

into a fiery swath of pseudo lava
cascading down El Capitan. Though
we’ve often stood in that meadow

looking up at the granite monolith,
we’ve only seen this rare alignment
of light and water in photos.

But in another national park,
we have watched actual screaming
orange lava birth new earth,

seen it cascade into the ocean,
sizzling for an instant, then cooling
once it hits the sea and sinks.

We have walked over crunchy
pahoehoe the color of coal,
feeling its crushed-glass texture

under our boots, and we have left
bits of loved ones’ cremains near
slow-moving lava, watching

the orange arms of the volcano
goddess gently encircle the ashes
before claiming them.

Of all the wonders you have shown
me, none compares to standing
with you, taking in the beauty

of the earth, the fire and water,
the here and gone, awestruck by
the miraculous—not least the great

good fortune that has landed us
together in this moment,
mindful of the thousands of

breath-catching marvels we have
shared, and of all the firefalls
yet to come.