B.M. Gidde


The fire blazes on the mountain tops,
Swallowing up all of the trees except pines.
The warm air has gone,
But the cold not yet come.
When I wake up,
Frost is lightly covering the browning grass.
When the sun rises high,
I can feel the icy breeze on my cheek and the golden warmth of the sun on my back.
I walk over the spent, frail leaves as the sun vanishes to the west,

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