Sunday, December 16, 2012

Smoke Signals

A charcoal pencil from the fire
Is all I need to pen my rural oblivion.
But in my hand this pencil smolders
With a heat I barely remember.

And then I need more.
More than a cardinal,
A chickadee, a cedar waxwing,
And a crow can give me.

So I throw my pencil into a bed of embers
And send smoke signals,
But as with all dreams that dissipate
The signals get lost in translation.

I am left bereft of sense and sensibility
And retrace little tracks of tiny birds' feet to tranquility
And breathe.

1 comment:

  1. I see the signals. What are they saying? hee hee. I love the "tiny birds' feet to tranquility".

    ReplyDelete

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