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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s