Smoke

When it's just me,
In a cozy spot with
A lit cigarrette, smoking
Unharried, I sit and watch.

Watch the orange-hot cherry
Burn down the length of
White paper and brown tobbacco.
And the blue smoke curling up, upward.

Inside, it curls and then
Mushrooms out, swirling, twirling
Reminding me of the underwater
Flutter and bob of clear-blue jelly-fish.

Sometimes, I reflect on that
One night, when someone who
Holds knowledge far beyond his year
Introduced me to the idea that smoke can be scryed.

All alone, I meditatively gaze
At and through the large
Explosions of carbon monoxide
That my lungs expell.

I have yet to scry the smoke,
But instead it has brought
Me hours of fascinated analyzation
Of its curling ribbon of blue-gray.

There's nothing so beautiful as
The ancient, intricate swirls and
Patterns that my modern, man-made
Cigarrettes produce everyday.