Autumnisle

The wicker man burns on lawn

Dead tree's splintered

Wilted bushes gathered

The falling time,

Leaves trap grass

At dusk, seeing smoke

Yard-wood smell, popping in the fire

Gaia's children scrape in hearthen exhale

The stars, the sky,

They are not the blanket of time

Seeking peace, in a crackling plume

Yesterday was, and is now, too.