The crunch
Of the leaves that
Carpet the earth
Beneath me
Is not music to
My ears. Yet,
The still light
Of a demure sun on
The scattered shades of brown
On gold, and gold on the wilting
Crisp reminder of a season
Just gone, is a
Beauty that should leave one
Amused.

Yet on this day,
When the sky holds
No clouds, and the air,
with the chill of death itself,
Takes every breath and gives one the colour of the dead.
I can not help but think
Of what
One very tiny spark might do to all
This...
Perhaps
Anguish, fear, destruction and maybe even despair, and then
Again
It might not even burn too far.
But I know that if such a flame should tame the wind, the heritage it might leave for us;
ashes, soot, charred wood,
Though the first of things to come,
Will be in time, the least of our thoughts.

Many new days shall come,
With new joys, fears and sadness
In humble mix.
But on this very tranquil day
I only imagined what a small flame could do to the last vestiges
Of a season past.