Smoke from a distant fire

the fading wisps of smoke

from a dying campfire

are the sweetest

dying embers sputter

dousing sand sizzles

 

I miss that

 

we built a fire pit

in the backyard of my

old, small town home;

thirteen-tons of flagstone

and granite I moved from a

friend’s farm so a neighbor’s kid

studying landscape design

could get some hands-on

real life experience

 

thirty-by-twenty-foot

stone patio with

a hole in the center

if you build it…

 

early mornings often

found me starting a small

campfire in rock-encircled pit;

one, maybe two oak limb sections

enough to get the blood, soul,

creative juices flowing

sitting in nylon lawn chair or,

on days when I felt more rustic,

the large, ogtagonal stone

I had discovered in Pat’s rock pile,

and that Chris had anchored

in place; my fire-poking seat

 

eight years have passed

since I last sat there

I have moved on, physically

but like the aromatic

smoke from a dying fire

permeates a plaid flannel shirt

the scent of regret

still lingers

– Mark L. Lucker

©  2016

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