Click.  It’s the profound red-gold yawn

of the Grand Canyon, you smiling,

standing above on the rock-edged rim

against azure sky and floating ravens,

You want this just right—a selfie,

an immortal moment.

Click. And your first-born, so adorable,

never grows up. Now you have three,

and your friend captures you all

riding bikes on some road

on Martha’s Vineyard—the lens

giving substance to memory.

Click. The same friend, now

a decade older, in sunhat and shades,

waves from a bench on the ferry,

the Statue of Liberty gleaming

behind, the wake rippling

blue background bay water.

Click.  It’s one of those midlife

barbecues. Tossing something

or other with tongs on grill,

you grin slightly, acting surprised,

but, of course, knowing all along

the picture is expected.

Click. The immensity of green—

Douglas firs, lodgepole pines, spruce,

aspens—stretch up from a narrow road.

You always have wanted to visit

Yellowstone Park, have aspired

to place yourself in its permanence.

Click. Oh, what a beautiful gravestone

marked with your name. The ceremony

was lovely, so say your children

and friends and acquaintances,

but then, celebrating a lifetime

always is—Click, click, click, click . . .