Sad Smoke
John Clare Stokes
Whatever came of our little lad
Whenever we made a fire outside
He was always there by our side
His pitch fork stabbing the pine straw
Watching the white smoke
Happily consuming it all.
This evening we burned a pine pile
On the hill
It was a good day with an
Autumn chill
But something was amiss
With the fire
It kept wafting low toward
The back porch door
Searching we were sure
For the little boy
As so I finally stuck his pitch fork
Next to mine
On the hill
And for the moment
Lured the sad smoke back.
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