Long weekend firework pops flash away and then remain:
The acrid smoke clings to the dusk, drifting diaphanous 
Across the almost disappearing crescent moon
(Such a slim sliver, cradling the beauty mark of a single star
Smudged across the painted face of twilight)
Almost overpowering the sweet scent of apple blossoms, 
Redolent on the slowburn sunset breeze, softly speaking Spring.