Together we’ve gathered them, these sheaves,
like pages from Nag Hammadi’s codices,
piling them, raking the scattered reams
of dusty, crumpled, nut-brown oak leaves.
Out of yard waste bags (that match in hue), we turn
to less than legal methods. Unconcerned
with smoke, I crave the scent and you yearn
for the hot glow of this autumnal burn.
Striking a match, I smell it catch. Alight,
our faces burn with joy, a shamed delight.
When I drop the flame, leaves smolder and writhe,
a curl of smoke rising toward November sky.
While future Falls burn away like leaves on fire,
I’ll fill my lungs with ash; breathe in tonight’s entire.
