paper lives

into
the fire
you shovel
boxes
of what you've
written.
wanting to be
done with them.
and as the papers
curl
blue
then red, towards
yellow, a full
frank
moon watches
between
the fingers
of bare trees.
you remember
sweet
days
of youth, both
yours and
others. how
fast your pen
moved, and now
at this age, you
see
how time burns
quickly
our paper
lives.