The Shape of Smoke

Smoke that rose from the chimney,
rose upwards, skywards.
The wind didn't carry it away
and rush it hither and thither.
It ascended, slowly to a height
and then slanted away;
obeying the wind.

The toy-train still runs on coal,
and gushes out ebony fumes
that soon lag behind the hurtling train.
Smoke sleaze the tender green leaves,
but the mountains are blessed with rain.

A smoker took a drag
and then tenderly let it go.
The white clouds distanced itself
graciously from her lips,
probably unwilling and aching.

There is smoke without fire,
and it hangs low
when it engulfs the stage
and makes actors look like gods
playing among the clouds.