Under the Spell

AUTUMN MAIZE

Temperatures fall in their cycle

Which turns up the fire.

Trees, like Redenbacher’s kernels

Are starting to sizzle in the frost-burn of night

Where the real work is done.

Best displayed by collapsing rays

Competing for chroma,

They begin to burst;

One here, another there, random surprises

Then an empty pause.

Two here, three there

Resplendent, exhilaratingly bright

Worth the price of impending gray

Til suddenly, the flaring blasts

Barrage every field and hillside

In deep-hued explosions uncountable

At zenith, flinging off their vibrant steam

As if to lift the stratosphere higher still

Succumbing finally to the chill

In spastic throes and scattered flinches

Until there is silence

Frostbitten edges caching the gift

To kindle with the warming.