I light a cigarette
and take a seat onto a damp lawn chair;
the smoke rises and billows
against the crimson colored shadows
like milk in water
and I watch as it goes up to the sky,
over my house where it leaves me to stare.
My mind is clear, eyes wide open,
ears dilate as cool droplets of water trickle down
with pitter patters through the leafy green stairs.
Some even skip from step to leaf top
as if to jump in a quick hurry toward its destination;
others fall in groups behind me
and morph into four legged creatures
that scatter across the moist ruffles
of old and weathered leaves.
Still, my focus is above.
This silent noise abounds from all directions:
a chirped song of a baby bird to my right,
the concerto soloist of a cricket in hiding below,
the bell whistle croak of a frog somewhere near by.
If my senses were a cup it would surely be full now:
Musky odors from a previous storm
that lie softly on the rich brownish-red soil
would rise like steam from its glass rim.
Inside, shavings of silver would gleam like diamonds in light,
and a cotton soft red wine would fill it
like the night does the sky.
And now as I sip from this natural perfection
I am reminded of your lips sweet interjection.
And as softly as the smoke had risen
toward the shadows of red light,
a kiss was lit and we both began to dance;
around your mouth mine had began to waltz,
slowly to and fro on tip toes being careful not to fall,
but you held me close and grasped me tight
like the red sky does the stars,
and like it and the wine that now fills my cup,
with you in that moment I was awe struck.