Orange on its way to ash.
  Anger that a night will quench.
     Passion in its honey swell
  pumpkin-plump before the rot.
      Bush of fire everywhere.
  Fur of hillside running flame.
  Rush of heat to rosehip cheek.
    Ripeness on its way to frost.
  Glare of blood before the black.
  Foxquick pulse.  The sun a den.
    Heartkill.  And the gold a gun.
    It is death that tints the leaves.


 =Tansy Mattingly