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
Puff Of Smoke Poems 