we rake them into pyramid pyres, <br /> our satisfaction glowing like the flame <br /> with which we light them. <br /> <br />we watch them smolder and consume, <br /> and flirt with summer's memory, <br /> whose ghost arises from the charred remains. <br /> <br />but on the leaf-cleared ground next day, <br /> we stand unsure of our suburban ritual, <br /> our sense of order questioned <br /> <br />by the pungent smell of conscience <br /> lingering in the air <br /> long after the cremation <br /> <br />we now illogically regret and mourn.<br /><br />Philippa Lane<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-leaves-3/
