strike the match

Just a pile of fallen leaves. Collected between some larger object and the never ending wind. A stuck image that stings. Like a seed caught between the teeth after eating a fresh ripe berry. Measures of golds and reds. Ambers. Rich as an old cherished necklace. I stop and stretch down my hand. Penetrate the cold glossy surface. Letting fingers and soft papery edges intertwine. I don’t want to lose this moment. Don’t want to forget the shade of the blue grey sky or the way the wind cut coldly across my eyes. Where are the words now? Thousands of feathery flames.