A curled and orange leaf

Breaks off a branch and floats

Softly, gently down to the stream

Where it drifts on reflected colors of red,

and yellow

She watches it from the bank,

wondering where it's going

wondering where it will end up

Because it's the last bit of beauty she'll see

This saturation of deathly colors,

exhalations of once-vivid flora,

Is the last she'll enjoy of deep and lovely hues

Perhaps she'll enjoy a glowing, orange fire in a few months

But it's a flickering hope

The logs are ready

The fireplace's set

She even managed a spark at the end of Summer

But it didn't catch

The Winter may be cold.