An old Autumn poem of mine

Footsteps down a path of burnt grass,
From the fires that spread from the trees all ablaze.
Sometimes I wonder,
Beyond all the oranges, yellows, and reds,
It it might, by chance,
Catch a glimpse of white or blue.
But it's cold, yet crisp,
Crunchy and thick and deep.
Wool sweaters and leather boots,
Push away rainbow ashes.
It's visually burning but cold and fresh.
They say it's all dying.
I think it's beautiful.
It's like everything is getting ready for a costume party.
All the foliage are cloaking themselves in colors,
Perhaps just reflecting or absorbing different parts of the spectrum.
They dress up their xylem and phloem with carotenoids.
And then spritz a bit of cinnamon and musk.
Then, when the breeze comes to take them all away,
They take wing, and dance.




This is a tiny woodland frog I found last year.