Jutting edges of photographs
capturing stillness. Jigsaw pieces
perfectly slotted. All angles
and austere equations
Plotted on nature's paper—
White flesh and perpendicular veins beneath;
grey-on-gold leaves biting into branches slicing into
desiccated trunks carving into tired earth digging into metal
lonely swings ripping into—
smoke.

Autumn smoke dimming sharp air,
Dissipating— unravelling tendrils that
curl curl curl achingly
up, towards distant sky to be
cloud wisps.
Every thread unbound, every seam undone—
I'm charred on Love's pyre.
Wood sparse and damp,
there's only smoke without the fire.

Wood holds back, receding behind wet moss and
cautious smoke creeps lowly,
embracing worldly memories
of swings and children and leaf hills,
and misplaced dreams like autumn air that stings.

Heavy is the smoke that aches
to transcend from pyre
and curl up into the sky.
Breaching borders to become
cloud wisps.

Note- The phrase “charred on love's pyre” is from the poet John Smith's “The catalogue of love,” and just a way of paying homage to him.