For an instant,
opening the door
to the wood stove
and releasing
a plume of smoke,
the scent brought
an image to mind.
Wisps of smoke from
the blunt end of a
hot iron
pressing into pine
prepared for just this,
trying to conjure
an impression
of a dip into the
wide world outside the door.
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I’ve never done wood burning, but there’s no question that different whiffs of smoke bring different memories. Now and then it’s burning autumn leaves, but when the wind’s in the east and the cane fields are burning in Louisiana, that smoke smells like a Liberian village.