It Burns

These tears
Will only sting
When they linger
Long on lips

Like rain
From autumn mornings
Which whispers
Newfound cold

In a world
So oddly still
Of clouds
And fallen colors

Where winds
Hold quiet secrets
Of trees
That seem to burn

For reasons
Amidst this
Solemn backdrop

Of grays
And gentle showers
With hints
Our season passed

While skies
Interpret heat
Not as sun
But pigments

Through shades
Of living palettes
When feelings
Show their hue

To mock
What leaves remain
Like cinders
Born of changes

Near wood
And barest branches
Whose flames
Are swept by gusts

Far away
Across this
Rigid landscape

In solid contrast
To summer
Which came before

Reminding me
Our blaze
Should glow
If we allow it

What mist will trickle
From heavens
Keeping score

Nature’s paint
Yet broken-hearted

This air
Still seems to harbor
A kiss
Of looming frost.

– J. Pigno

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