Lucin Chukhadarian

As the smoke ascends,

silver crystals cloud atop.


Sheets of ashen spread across,


a hair fork of inconsequence,

fastens strands,

netted with wrinkled hands,

fashioned in a tight bun.


Pansy kerchief covers

threads of salt & pepper,

looped at her chin.


Between her fingers

A Virginia Slim,

separation of the unity unimaginable

as precarious age coats her expression.


Smoke saturates her space,


the skill of rebirth in

crochet needles, a labor with reason

that climbs across dual chains.


The filter dangles on her quivering lips,


fly, to a quiet drop.


Hands beg to retire.

Her walk appears uncertain,

rickety patience a likely rest mate.


Ash trails her steps.


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