A Scent of Smoke

A narrow pathway through the green.
A granite marker cool and clean.
A moment’s pause beneath an oak.
Dead leaves burning.
A scent of smoke.

Memory shifts to another scene:
Another path, another green.
A springtime kiss beneath an oak.
A passion smoldering.
A scent of smoke.

The path leads onward, past the green,
to eternal darkness unknown, unseen.
Another stone, another oak.
A body moldering.
A scent of smoke.

I would not walk that path too soon.
I’d linger here beneath the moon,
Remembering days when life was green,
Hope abundant, vision clean.
But walk that fatal path we must.
All living things return to dust.