Fading Glory

Inbetween my home and school there lies a little glade, a nest of trees to find a way between each day.
A man with nowhere else to go has called it home, and now as winter finds its way into this nook, the man begins to build a fire.
Smoke is rising and it startles me each morning. He calls out to me, the presence of a fire beckons me on such a frigid morn, but he does not belong here.
Nor does the ziplock bag of dead brown leaves upon my desk, its value no one understands but me.
If I had an icy bag of water, I’d know it had been that first snow, and if there was an empty jar, I’d see in it your first cool breath that left its trace upon the wind.
These first fragments of the seasons are more than fading beauty.
I’d sit them side by side in front of me in order to remind myself to hold on tightly to each fading glory.