Again, this circle.
Rain threatened to fall all day
both inside me and in the air.
The world grew colder. Clouds gathered.
The wind picked up.
It shook those
poor windows, so used to being
Opened to the breeze.
It took hours, mostly all day,
to remember: Words written down,
and autumn comfort food—soffritto
made with the last of the garden’s tomatoes
and yesterday’s bread. These were the cure,
the Art of making do with this particular life,
the one life I have.
Toast to it with the last of the wine.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 