Smoke Mirror

Image by Engin Akyurt

Like
dust fluke soup when bright sun beams right
the speckled float for breathing lungs
now impact of our stratosphere
compacted space not in the clear.
Here
wisp in the dark, hint of black arts –
why is it smoke, joss stick or not,
that stirs us, presence on its own
which we can waft but not contain?
See
small focus on the recognised,
no cropping of the photograph,
to illustrate and emphasise
the eerie leery spectral fear.
But
one leaf from its ejector seat
dismissed by twist and auxin draft,
no draught required if time full term,
reborn, this skin, loft duties done.
Yet
now drop required to feed the earth,
a midwife to regenerate,
another ring within the beam,
twig cast off as a knitting pearl.
Still
some wonder, worry, source of drift,
beyond control or handiwork,
a craft not known or understood
unsettling. Gracious life goes on.

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