Blazed icily —
Tore through the bitter winds in a
Passionate last dance. A flame.

Rustled silently —
Carried the whispers of those
Left behind. A ghost.

Aged youthfully —

Tickled with its fingertips the
Dried and dead. An end

To its journey as it touched

The yellow dust.

And now on the path lay

The first maple leaf that fell . . .