White Melancholy

White, melancholy cylinders

Perch themselves on tall, thin tree pieces

And wait.

Soon, giggling monsters

With bright eyes and empty bellies

Will lumber into the picture.

They will fumble around anxiously

Until they wrap pink fingers around

Those tree pieces.

A bonfire they will start

With great pleasure

They lick their lips,

And walk over to the blazing pile

Of what was once

A maple tree

They hold the tree pieces holding these cylinders

High above the flames

Some, dipping down farther

straight into the glowing embers

  

These cylinders, once pure white

Will crinkle, and burn,

Until finally they are released

From their blackened skin

In a gooey rebirth

They are placed on a taupe tomb,

Covered with a deep brown funeral cloth,

And the coffin in closed with another taupe plank.

The grinning monsters are pleased.

“S’mores anyone?”