Puff Of Smoke Poems

give out grace like candy
sweet and small
give a handful of grace
to your own sweet self

This world will keep tumbling around us,
taking and bestowing
blessings and betrayals,
Finally, finally learn your path
will never be straight so learn
to love the curves and boulders,
downed branches from the storm,
early crocus pushing through last year’s leaves
All these delays along the way
are there to help you pause and
remember—
Grace is the whole reason we’re here.
Give yourself another handful—
Oh, go ahead, make it a whole basket full
of grace enough to share

for fifty years he thought
he knew her, his wife, mother to their sons

till they arrived here,
the pink cottage
Here is a new chapter–where
he is a famed photographer of beaches
Where age and bad knees and
this tropical yearning fulfilled turned his love
to a mermaid,
muse of every photo

High wind warning
delivered in the dark
Daylight now—
We watch it work
its wild way
through the woods
of our winter world

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