In the gray autumnal afternoon
our bonfires gleam
bright orange
flames leap high
under the oaks
burn greedily through piles
of brush
pine branches
blackberries
and leaves
we've gathered
since the end of summer

The smoke blows one way
then the other
in the shifting breeze
the scent is equally
acrid and sweet
and brings to mind
scenes of a distant childhood
memories long unbidden
another coast
the family home
outside of Boston
the crisp New England air
and leaves
raked into mounds
that burned and smouldered
with the autumn's
pungent fragrance
the selfsame fragrance
that now conjurs up
a young boy's exultation
as he dives
into leaf piles
just for the wanton joy of it