Fields Are Burning


Fields are burning.
Molten gold dancing to a scalded breeze.
Waves of butter
Burnished with the sear of an august kiss.
A blaze of meadow,
An inferno of color,
A yellow born in the furnace.
Warning the soul of a deep winter’s dream.
An orange dripping like the smelt of iron
Splashing in the wrinkle
And the flash of summer heat.
Goldenrod rising to heaven.
Their reverence - color.
Their sacrifice - time.

Fields are burning.
Their release is but a blink
Soon enough lost to the scythe of the season,
Soon enough dust on a November wind.

Fields are burning.
Rejoice in their brilliant song.
This time will not come again.
This time may be their last.
Take the now as the moment.
Tomorrow may not be there long.