Corn Cob Pipe

Corn Cob Pipe

Chosen,
by young hands.
Its head robbed
from that halved oak cask filled with sun burnt gold.
Its throat cut
from the soft wood tree by the Old Town Spring.

Made,
by skilled hands.
With its cavern emptied
using Gammer’s favorite tea spoon,
while a torn skirt hem soaked in linoleum oil
polished its skin to a shine.

Held,
by gentle hands.
As match spawned flames
touched shredded leaves to light like stove coals,
a delicate pull drew sweet white smoke;
so slowly, as it was the first time.

Cherished,
by familiar hands.
Reverently drawn from a tortoise shell box.
The two old friends sat down to smoke,
on that broken step to watch the cold sun set,
as one sighed deeply, and the other drew in a deep breath.

Saddened,
by old hands.
As it felt the dreadful trembling spell,
and sought to comfort its father and friend,
until it was forgotten in that tortoise shell box.
Alone, save for memories of sweet smoke.

Chosen again,
by young hands.
Reverently invited from its dusty abode.
Its mouth is stuffed and lit like stove coals,
and once more a delicate pull draws sweet white smoke.
So slowly, as if it were the first time.