autumn
a handful of berries
opening
a blue glass bubble
of remembered light
burnishing
the trunks of birches
sorrow
the old crone’s shadow
on the white moth’s wing
dust motes
in a circle of light
the bubble
shrinking to a stone
inside the chest
stone
to build a fire ring
kindling
flame from ashes
before dusk
the scent
of apples—
bubbles rising
each a different mirror
to a changing face
hearthstone ashes
the price of wisdom paid—
but
can witch hazel bloom
so deep in winter
firelight fades
the old crone follows
the glint
of drifting bubbles
through the dark wood
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