The fires are lit
Not as signals among the hilltops
But for warmth in the halls of the orange belt
Where tangerine tapestries clutch the walls
Peach pits smolder in the groves
Tended by loyal citrus shepherds of the night
To shrug off the winter's breath
And shed fears to the air
Fans upon the landscape
Seem out of place in a way
Unusual turbines to blow down warmth
To flush the freeze away
Waters spread upon the ground
Soak roots to their depths
And wash away ice in the fibers
To give life again to the core
Smoke clouds rise in the East
Along the mountain's doorstep
Peaks now blanketed in cold
Resting still in the silence
Low foothills dusted with snowflakes
Cool in the clouded shades
Shine bright when rays glimpse the hillsides
Sunlight seeing what it can
These are the scenes of Decembers
When the hills are yet to green
When the oranges set the stage
For outcomes good or bad
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