By Tricia Knoll
I can’t smell the ash and maple gray
smoke that rises from your woodstove.
I can’t see it drift over the woodlot
through flurries of snow on pines.
A faint flame flickers in my mind’s eye,
insufficient window into what warms you.
Remember where your home fires burn,
that’s someone’s saying, a wise one.
Your smoke has never seemed so far away
as now.
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