Smoke

Smoke

A chill late winter night, a waxing moon
Rising to prominence in the still air,
And smoke drifting up from a pipe's embers.
Lighter sparks, touches coals, and the bright flare
Brings the scent of burning maple sugar.
In this life, is there any certain good?

Surely, in this there is only good.
Comfortable silence under the moon;
Sharing smoky breaths sweet as sugar.
Tendrils of smoke travel ghostlike on air.
This is not passion, just the gentle flare
And fade of tenderness like warm embers.

Dawning May slowly overcomes the embers
Of Spring’s welcome-fire; a pipe, true and good,
Pours forth sanctified smoke - making each flare
A tribute. On the horizon, the moon
Lingers gibbous to touch the brightening air –
The triumph of Nature sweet as sugar.

All things in life are two-edged, like sugar
Or memories fanned like dying embers.
Still, the beauty of smoke drifting in air
Stirred by rising Spring is a certain good.
Like the last breath of the vanishing moon,
The scene slips away - there’s no final flare.

A muggy alleyway in June, a brief flare
And the smell of sulphur meeting charred sugar.
The world changes under the silver Moon,
Reflecting the steady drag of embers -
Chance-met friends sharing smoke as show of good
Faith, crystal laughter ringing upon air.

Laughter sings out to the Powers in air,
Who dwell between the worlds. The brief flare
Of joy within the dark they hold as good
Above all good things, the apple’s sweet sugar,
And pleased are they when friends share these embers
Under golden Sun or triumphant Moon!

Good night; dream true and free as the very air.
Walk strong under the moon, and cherish the flare,
The sugar-smoke, and all of Life’s embers.