Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

When mother rang
the winter bell,
at the end of the
Sun’s rise, we fell
upon the feast she
made, and felt the
chill in our bones.

The fire burns,
woodsmoke smell,
succulent reds,
oranges, and yellows,
eaten from the graying
grass where they fell.

One should not waste
the fruits of summer.
When Autumn dries
their seeds, rest assured
that mother’s
feast, when renewed,
will feed us well.

For know, heed the call,
and meet us in the banquet
hall. Mother wishes
us, so gather among
the fallen leaves
and break this bread
before the grapes
have dried and no
wine can be pressed
at all.

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