Smokefree Cinquain

Three years
and keep counting
up then down to return
to a time I still feared lighting
a match.

Two Years Smoke Free (Or, David Bowie’s Birthday)

Wild winter wishes
rumble through weeds. A plain
for practicing

freedom cartwheels. Late
afternoon fog, or
are they low-lying

clouds dancing just above
freezing? No more

halo, I make my way home
without rings.

Smoke cleared,
the time has come
for her to claim her own
signature fragrance—a rose at
midnight.