Spark
then a flicker of light.
A wave
of jubilant dragons,
made visible
by the black backdrop,
streak up
then die down,
back to their caves
in the hollows of dry wood.

I breathe in,
air cold as steel
stabs my lungs.
Goose bumps start to rise,
like a million tiny pinpricks.
But as I approach the leaping tongues,
a blanket of warmth
permeates my shivering skin.

Coils of gossamer smoke
mask the pungent odor
of fallen leaves, as bright as jewels,
rotting pumpkins with faces like melting masks,
set on porch steps,
and the sharp tang
of winter’s winds
right around the corner.

It twists and twirls
to the beat of an unheard drum.
An unseen festival takes place
lasting until left
with smoldering mementos.

As I fall into the worn wicker chair,
an ever-changing glow
swims across my face.
And soft light
banishes the dark.