Burning Leaves

Autumn’s sweet

pungent perfume,

winter’s promised gift,

yesterday’s dreams,

tomorrows hope,

swirl and drift upwards,

upwards,

in the spiraling

grey smoke,

from burning leaves.

Leaves of poplar, birch

of Maple, and of oak.

Fate and fortune,

ebb and flow,

flow and ebb,

until time its self

unwinds unnoticed

like tomorrow’s clock,

upon yesterday’s shelf.

Life tangles,

untangles,

laughter,

sweet moments of love,

come and go

as if they are

no more

than a spider’s web,

or a morning mist,

that vanishes

as the sun’s warmth,

begins to grow.

Red flames lick

until all that is,

is an ember’s

faint, fading glow.

For this is indeed

how tomorrow

will come,

and how

yesterday must go,

until our lives

are no more

than a frail thread

of wispy pale smoke,

from burning leaves.