Dwelling in the rust that gilds the woodland floor,
Becoming and in tune with the electricity beyond the doors
To the open arms of a wilting chestnut tree.

Silver slid up the track marks in the bark into being,
Ascending to the fire that spoke from each and every leaf,
Elevating the witness higher into the branches, the furnace.

Sap lit and glistening beads dripped;
And when the fires dimmed,
They were held stationary like frozen rain.

Brushing aside the droplets,
Peering into the embers within:
The glow of a dying fire,
A heartbeat for autumn's oncoming.