Autumn's Devoted Flame

Nov 1

By: Joe Adams

In the hush of shortening days, one soul tends the wild,

With hands that coax the earth to yield its hidden fire,

Burning bushes, crimson-hearted, rising bold and styled,

Barberry thorns agleam with berries' ruby ire.

And there, the feather gear, soft plumes in russet array,

Woven from windfall quills or finery of the fowl,

Pruned and placed with care, a rustling, feathered fray

That dances in the breeze, a crown for autumn's scowl.

They water roots through frost's first whisper, trim the wayward stem,

Whisper secrets to the leaves till veins pulse gold and red,

Till every branch ignites, a symphony of gem

And flame, where shadows play and sunlight's warmth is shed.

Stand beside this garden's edge, where colors blaze unbound,

And feel the magnificence envelop, sight and sound—

A testament to love that labors, profound and true,

Turning fall's brief glory into eternity for you.

Men are thus made