Puff Of Smoke Poems

Snowing softly everywhere
except where squirrels chase each other
through the trees, dislodging snow squalls

It is just animals and their mysterious ways
But it looks like jubilation as those squirrels
create flurries
with every branch they leap to or from

On my side of the window, I sip coffee
and watch the tiny snowstorms they create.
I can almost hear them laughing as they run

Sometimes, after a feast
the most delicious thing is the table swept clean
Gone, those recipes, all those ingredients
mixed and measured and made into appetizer or cake,
stew or elaborate dinner —

Some days, her words don’t want to be built and shaped—
Some days, poetry wants to sit and rest—
Like now. Her tangled letters a jumble on the kitchen table—
a puzzle at ease with itself—
each piece solid and content.

Then I wander through the room and pause—
Unable to resist, I fit this piece to that word,
place this deep blue next to those many-colored holiday lights,
notice how they glitter beneath the scents of pine trees and browning butter,
with carols playing somewhere at a distance, carried on the wind

Until I started mixing them together, all these were so quiet—
every piece, every thing at rest,
Not gathering together for the next sprint forward,
Not taking in a deep breath before becoming the rise of yeast bread,
Or a conversation, or a novel, a letter, or even a small poem
Now though? Now they are filled with anticipation,
waiting for me to drop the forming words and leave the kitchen.
Then they can return to quiet
just quiet—
words all at rest, for their own sweet sake

You call,
worried for my pocketbook,
to discuss the price
of caramel-coated
apples dipped in chocolate.
But what could be worth more
than the gift
of sweetness
in this half-bitter world?

Today’s author—winter
And the world-renowned illustrator?
His dear friend—
slowly falling snow

while I was away
one treetop turned bright orange—
those leaves wave
autumn’s flag of arrival
from the far side of the turnpike

change is everywhere now—
orange is a promise that some of it
will be beautiful

one deer this morning
hesitates
when she sees me
then lowers her head to graze
as I transform to background,
to landscape,
to just another animal
greeting the day

every day, advice is
something about the breath—
count it, notice it, release it, on and on—
This morning, the mist I believed was lifting
instead, thickens to fog
rolls close across the top field
Breeze shifts, hurries to herd this sky
eastwards towards the forest—
back and forth it drifts
from field to forest, back again
fog as light as a poem

Oh, the mind
is a mixed blessing
Let out into the dark, it
explores, is
easily startled by
moves in the night
or an unexpected noise,
rattled and difficult to soothe,
unruly and tangled in upon itself

Do not bother with efforts
to calm it
Instead
just breathe

The mind, that clever toddler
captivated by so much,
sometimes draws close to
An
Unhurried
Breath

Lured near, as if to a campfire
on a cold night
it may come to you
curl up, press itself close to your side

I walked the upper field after your funeral—
stubbled grass golden in late afternoon sun

A red fox trotted, purposeful,
across the field
towards me—wild and contented in his skin

He stopped
startled
at me, there
In the middle of his kingdom.

It wasn’t you.
It was a wild,
beautiful animal,
solidly
Fox.

But anyone, fox or person, can be both—
self and sign, symbol.
Sign of —?
Oh, that’s the deep beauty of signs—
They are —it is—if you believe it
Whatever you believe.

Let’s believe it’s a sign that you
were trotting towards the heaven
you tried so desperately to believe in—
Finally, blessedly,
totally,
out
of
your mind.

“This world is but canvas to our imaginations.” Henry David Thoreau

I am going to offer Thoreau
the benefit of the doubt—
perhaps you were quoted
Out of Context

Because, No.
The world is itself, independent of us
No matter how awful or beautiful it is
or we are.

There is a lame deer in the field this morning.
I watch her from the bedroom window
as I dress for work

She hobbles, fails utterly
to keep pace with the others—
in pain
and painful to watch

This is not a poem about resilience
No rest or help or recovery
will be offered to her

And even those creatures
fortunate enough in this world
to afford a soft bed, and homemade meals,
jovial helpers with kind hearts, physical therapy,
all manner of supports we prop ourselves with

A softer path than hers, but still
A path.

She has moved while I wrote—
grazes the left-behind field grass,
edges closer to the cover of forest
that dangerous border