Only October and already the sky
knows to turn in earlier, the maple
slipping into her negligee of copper
& flame. Imitatio dei:
everything becoming like God, holy,
kindled with intention. Even pumpkins
asleep on the vine wait for their cores
to be whittled, ignited. The whole earth
aglow: brushwood bonfires at dusk,
a different kind of blooming—fiery
reminder of how easy faith once seemed,
and tangible, before God became
a welcomed guest, that old flame who can
never bring himself to stay for long, or at all.