Smoke
A smokey haze hangs in the late-spring air
it’s 4 am, before daybreak,
the yard’s twinkling lights penetrate the opaque clouds
that move with precision and float with a balerina’s grace along the rolling foothills
Familiar winds carry ancient wisdom wrapped in plumes of grey smoke
and particulate in tow
The breeze caresses my face and tells me that the wild fires will soon tame
It’s hard to resist the promise, the wish of truth, when it rests on a whisper
2 thoughts on "Smoke"
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Perhaps it was the inclusion of “ancient wisdom” amid the rolling mists, but you transported me back and adjacent into pre-history Celtic rites 🖤
Thank you! Unfortunately, we’re getting the nasty smoke plumes and haze from the Canadian wildfires. I live in the Hudson Valley, New York. It’s shocking how far south this smoke has been traveling. Today is supposed to be the worst of it. We hope for it to clear out by midnight tonight. I appreciate that you feel transported while reading this poem. It’s a little eerie outside, especially this morning when I got up for work. Yikes.