fine pluming

leaves will swirl in my tea

and the pluming rise up

of fine steam and memories

through each nostril

at the sharp forefront of my brain.

eyes will percolate with images

as the film out front

shows hands and faces steeped

in something bright

and human.

fine and slow,

fog's fire will roll in low,

burn the dry leaves,

chide a feather smoldering

inside feeling's hollow hold.

embers, dash away

and share with me some swallows 

who'll sing afresh.