Done with basic training,
a week before he ships out,
he visits us at his old school
crew cut and a camera.
I want pictures of everything, he says—
teachers, cafeteria, library, courtyard, walls,
Books, of course. And the road I live on,
my house, my family, our yard, trees in autumn.
I think of him far out at sea,
with his few carefully chosen books,
and his plentiful photos,
scrolling through his world,
watching maple leaves change
where leaves have never been before
while the ocean swells and wonders
how something so small
captures all this attention.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 