Final Fire Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

A dark brown wicker basket
on my wooden porch
brims with fragrant apples.

Afternoon's warm and dusty veil
absorbs the silent messages
from thin tall pine trees
towering behind the roof.

The pungent smell of turpentine
Mixed with ripe apples
Fills my nose.

A lone orange leaf on the vine
calls, no shouts
to neighboring plants
and me:

'It is my final fire.
Celebrate today.
It is my final fire.'