Bright blue sky holds the

Silver gray smoke from the chimney.

 

Golden leaves fall in

Showers from the trees and

 

Dry brown leaves dance with each other in circles

On faded green grass.

 

I sit here alone, watching, smelling, seeing and smiling.

A gray squirrel chatters at me from the edge of the forest, what is he saying?

 

The day is getting late and my house now sits in the shadows.

With the sun in my face, I can barely make it out.

 

It’s as if it has blended back into the woods

From which it was made.

 

All that remains is the red chimney, the silver smoke

And the chatterind squirrel.

 

My place in all of this is erased, and unneeded, it will all carry on without me.

The petunias continue to climb over the iron rooster’s back in defiance of my will,

 

Or what they perceive to be my will.

 

I think I’ll go inside now and make more silver smoke.

 

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