Smoke

There is a poem waiting on my chest

Pressing in splayed out tendrils.

I strain to hear the soft language  

raking my mind for the words. 

If the words arc, like the set up

sprinkler, flinging water faster than sight, 

I try to catch them. Some are repetitive;

If sad could be seen, it would be this

tender, drifting  air, heavy with white smoke, 

the patient droop of dusty leaves.

If holy, the sky torn in my time into shreds 

of blue. If joy, in green sparkles of rain, the brave 

energy of birds. I try to look 

with an open face like the dog has, watching 

from the passenger seat but the question

of how to put them together so they fit,

Saying what they want to say,

remains unanswered.