In the brevity of my long experience — reading, writing, breathing, thinking — smoke is one of those magical words that is almost impossible to distinguish from the thing it represents. Like the sting of my youth and the gentle gathering of age, it finds its way everywhere, as color, in scent, in memory. And what I can’t quite fathom on the page because of it, I know the more vividly is there.
Haiku for August
Can it be, the oldest part of me
is smoke from things
I cannot
see
Poems, Slightly Used, August 26, 2009
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Categories: Poems, Slightly Used
William Michaelian 