ending
the flame is hot and bright
at the tip of the incense
it looks miles above the pot
of white ash waiting below
a puff of air through pursed lips
brings forth the smoke
and the smell of winter nights
on tatami floors, hot mugs
of green tea fitting
perfectly in cold hands
further down now, the ember
no longer glows, but
the smoke is heavier in the air
it catches the beams of the
autumn sun through the
narrow kitchen window
this is the time to sit quietly
to follow the breath
to be aware of the sounds
of cars on the street
wind in the bathroom vent
the stick is burned down
nearly to the bed of ash
it doesn’t know, of course
that in a moment it will end
its brief flame snuffed out
nothing left but the lingering
scents of clove and cinnamon
captured as tiny grains floating
in the last rays of sunshine
10 November 2013
Oak Street
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