Like the Burning Stake of Saint Joan of Arc
A scarlet leaf, a yellow one, a gold
Flame leaf, an orange one, these rages yield
Enough to cause a fire. These colors scold
The other seasons since they failed to wield
Such passion. They held hot as summer sun
And cool as April, cold as winter’s white
And left us failure, bivouacs overrun
With tedium of full-grown green, not might
Though, not the power of passion. Only Fall
Electrocutes the forest air, ignites
Our eyes with rhyme. The other seasons crawl
Around with tints, becoming sometime blights.
Ribs’ campfire colors of the autumn, thrilled
With certain death, lean out as God distilled.
~ Phillip Whidden