Smoke

Soft, grey, floating tugged by breeze, a light cloud Almost alive, a plume from source, spreading out Rounded edges like a cotton ball, smudged against the sky It twists and turns, folds and curls I imagine the birth of it, small, hot, as it joins the air Each tiny particle playing, jouncing with another Like a swarm of swallows, ever changing form, direction, shape Seeming to have no firm gain in mind Enjoying the freedom, billowing forth, so happy to be loose I ignore the cause, I don’t want to consider Yet it is there, this ground for the smoke, reason, rhyme And so I watch this ever evolving cloud As it paints the sky in front of my eyes Unable to look elsewhere, drawn to it, glued Then I find another focus, as life has needs also I turn to them and so this become a memory Amongst all the others, this is filed, stored, just another moment Adding to my own personal plume of smoke