The red ripe leaves of the stone fruit tree garnishing these streets
falls raining on the empty road, tarred black.
It’s Autumn again;
the leaves are falling down in hope of rising.
To a dormant sleep of vim, they tumble
like bright orange embers, waiting for the winds of harvest.
An endless forest fire, he would initiate in them, on his visit,
They know, so do I.
https://www.peachstreetmagazine.com/home/two-poems
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