Sad smoke

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.