In autumn we collect our pine cones, gather our firewood,
steal tiny branches of red Winter Berries from the pheasants.
In winter I'll make my wreaths of pine cones and wine corks.
I'll rock and watch my fireplace burn,
smile as the flames sputter from the pitch
and solemnly drink my red wine.
Give the red drop, see the backlit numbers...
Nights I will dream, free of the sputters of dawn phenomena.
