Colored autumn lines a hill with fire,
Its vibrancy sits heavy in my iris.
I greet it like an old hound,
And chase its scent to the top.

Who knew rot could be a perfume?
Maybe it’s the pessimist in me?
No, it’s the pruning of a relationship
holding opportunity like a prisoner.

I’ve always felt meaning
When peaking a hill.
Accomplishment seems to be made for
the man who can look back,
And understand why the hill is on fire.