Pyre
Flambeaus in the orchard cannot disguise
the way fruit falls in the grass
nor the orchard's demise.
Two swings face the lake, moving
in the wind, empty now as slats
where our backs leaned.
Dusty grapes that swag
and droop upon the vine,
apples that mellow upon the ground,
the fulfillment of roses and of wine
cannot hide places where we dreamed,
cannot hide autumn's funeral pyre.
Winesaps, grapes, falling leaves,
hands that cannot meet and yet
in the ashes there is stirring
a bit of green, a leaf.
Sue Scalf
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