I Follow The Smoke, And Sigh Poem by RIC BASTASA

at first we like highlights.
we want to reach the peak of this and that.
or the lowest point where we can get attention.

the years twirl. The nights curl. The days dance.
Until everything gets numb.

Then we take our reclining chairs when evening is near.
We light the dry grass, build a fire, and produce the smoke
that climbs the stairs to the sky.
We sit calmly, our hands free on the side of our body, and then look beyond the distant sea facing us
without any emotion.

I look at you, doing the most usual thing.
Merely watching
the passage of quiet moments.

I follow the smoke, and sigh, hoping that in that far
place, God may still see us.
No matter how tiny.