I am unknown to you, here,
in the high winds, kiting.
Aloft, hiding,
in plain view,
my rushing whisper
drifts downward
Woodsmoke
In her eyes,
green hills roll,
woodsmoke-tinge
grays the edge,
reminding
lonesome hearts
of wood stoves,
wool blankets,
and stillness. Continue reading “Woodsmoke”