-This poem reflects on an autumn bonfire made from fallen leaves and orchard branches, where flame transforms the season’s debris into warmth, scent, embers, and sparks rising through the dark.
At dusk, we rake the maple leaves
and stack the fallen apple limbs,
then strike a match beneath the heap
and watch blue smoke climb through the trees.
The flames move gold through curled brown leaves,
the branches settle, spark by spark,
while faces brighten near the ring
and shadows reach across the field.
An acorn cracks beneath the heat,
wet bark releases fragrant steam,
and applewood sends sweetness through
the sharper scent of smoke and earth.
By midnight, only coals remain,
their orange breathing under ash;
we turn one log, and sparks rise past
the blackened branches of the maple.