Analysis of Firehouse

I sat beneath the old saffron
willow, crumbling leaves
to dust in my soft palms.
Autumn creeped in once again,
setting the trees on fire and carrying
their leaves away with the cool wind.
I looked across the dirt road, at the
old, blackened house, bathed in sunlight.
The peeling paint leapt out like specks of glitter into the wind.
Years of memories were still trapped within its walls.

More than the leaves caught fire.