A rusted metal tractor seat is wedged between the cracks of the huge rocks.
We have built a small fire into it, roasting too-big marshmallows
Over our meager and perfect flame.
We joke about the life of a tractor seat.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or simply
Wallow in the mystery.
The boys’ hands maneuver wood, resting the logs in the curves and holes
Of the old piece of equipment.
Our fire flames bigger, casting its orange light on our faces,
And suddenly: new purpose: a new life.
Like the butterflies pinned to a glass frame
Hanging on the wall of the cabin,
Death of something brings purpose to another.
My fingers float in the warm air above the fire and I can
Almost see the butterflies fly away.