Someone has built a fire
and the smoke sails through the air.
On its back travel the scents of past years,
past harvests, past autumns.
The surviving leaves on the trees
mock the ones sent into the flames,
flashing gold, and orange, and red.
Some though, refuse to give into such taunting,
their green boughs concentrated on soaking up
the rays of a much cooler autumn sun,
breaths of kettle corn, apple butter,
and the contented buzz of the harvesters.
Written June 18, 2013