Bonfire

Huddled, our faces, flickering like a candle,
Before the piled wood, fallen pine cones,
Where in starry arms the night does dandle,
Those now going off, the drowsy hours,
To woodland roads alone.

Place our moccasins by the maple tree,
Her every leaf and twig and flower,
Her bright red burning, the honeybee
Leaves sugar combs to golden crackle,
Rising flames for all grow louder.

In the dale and upon the hill
We send out plumes of autumn smoke,
We call with heat like ancient folk,
Who, wrapped in woven blankets,
We bring to the coffin-maker.

A hundred brooks and walls of stone
We leave to heaps and floods and laughter
As solitude, the night comes after,
And walnut yellow leaves
lay where blown.

Below the horizon sleep some stars
That pass no inch uncalled, time-fixed border
Just autumn winds, rattle rice-filled jars,
Abandoned corn stalks, dry, will clatter
Near narrow footpaths with weeds overgrown.

Photo from Rauner Library, Photographer Unknown