By Linda Principe
these trees in a row
like flaming candles against the blue.
Fall is a feeling,
not unlike the setting sun;
the most beautiful kind of dying.
They know, these trees,
about borrowed time,
that brazen, courageous orange,
a last stand against the onslaught of wind
that will strip them to skeletons,
their death no more merciful
than anyone else's.
Every year, for weeks,
they move from flicker to flame,
to autumn fire,
time the accelerant that reduces them
to embers on the grass
strewn about like pages
from books we barely remember,
though we know how the story ends.
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