Renee B

The woods are afire--
They roar with light,
Limbs upstretched in praise,
Cloaked in finest flame,
Embracing this year's end.

The crimsons pirouette,
Oranges and golds harmonize,
The browns whisper--
Surprised--not of death, but
The joy of being consumed.

A bitter wind extinguishes
The colors, silences the songs.
I no longer drive
The burning gauntlet,
But a stone grey palisade.

Still, silent--satisfied.
I might say
Sad in their nakedness,
But I would err:
They are glutted with glory.

The End

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