Have you ever seen smoke rise when the wind
is still, when there is only the humming
of distant cars, of rustling in the trees,
when night has descended upon every
quaking thing but a candle, or even
a cigarette? The ash falls, the wax drips,
building its own eternal resting place.
There is no regeneration. Only
remains remind of the first flame that birthed
the glow that thinks it will burn forever;
or else the trail of smoke that danced upwards,
seen only against the lights of others,
and if not, then never, not once, at all.