Westwind

Nana

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,

ruins,

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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