sometimes there’s a breath
of perfume in the air
it lays low
waiting for movement to stir it up
then it hangs like orphaned smoke.
it clings to my clothes;
forcing me to smell it all day long
bringing back memories…
and here I am again
colliding with worlds I thought I had left behind—
wrestling with winds I wasn’t sure would blow.
your name is a mist that floats around my head
a lightweight fog,
triggered by faint reminders
of orphaned smoke.
(1998-Tulsa, OK)
Mark Money
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/orphaned-smoke/