Three years
and keep counting
up then down to return
to a time I still feared lighting
a match.
quit smoking
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.
Scented Cinquain
Smoke cleared,
the time has come
for her to claim her own
signature fragrance—a rose at
midnight.
