October's fiery sun enters the woods
   falls down among the trees
   spatters the ground.

Looking west I see the heart of the woods:
a furnace of light.

You tell me to enter this light - or is it this heart,
this woods, this furnace?

But if I stand here and wait a while
until it enters me -

No, surely it will pass by
just as you have
without igniting

even though the fuel is dry
and ready for flame.