Winter is the New Fall

The last autumn apple falls

off the apple tree

hitting decaying leaves that took the same leap

yesterday

leaves that left branches above

painted by November’s brush

bright yellows fade as a dying camp fire

to the red embers

of wood

now more ash than wood

we watch die

with one more marshmallow

the last rites of

the sun

till she returns

to sun us all

next Spring.

 

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