Smoke Ghost

Green to Gold
Gold to Rust
Rust to . . .

He rises from the weathered leaves and smoldering ashes
A coiling smoke thing twisting up through the barren branches
Once filled with fire
now empty

Grey noise rustles in his throat
And his fingers try to touch everything before the wind can
dispel him

He calls something like my name
But I can feel the acorns and maple seeds
Hidden in the leaves
And in this moment
know my measure of Eternity

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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