They tell me smoke rises.
I say it seems to linger
then dissipate,
an imperfect formation just happy

to exist.
It’s really the wind pulling upward,
riding on a ray of moon
to a forgotten horizon, not far
from here, to eternity
just beyond a setting sun.

It’ll be Christmas soon, words
waiting beneath the snow
to cover you; a layer lying just underneath
and snug upon your skin.

Can you hear the dog, a spirit that is high
as the strained pitch that makes you
respond, lashing out
at the sun. It doesn’t care
to answer or confirm, only speaking
through the clouds racing by.

There’s no fun, but it’s alright
because there’s no sorrow.
What would you borrow from the light,
would it satisfy the doubt,
willing to change the plan you’ve laid out?