by David Subacchi
The smell of burning pine comes first
Before black smoke columns
Twisting upwards
Appear on the horizon
And even at a distance
A warmth is felt
Warning of danger
And flushing the cheek.
Summer brings
The picnic people
Discarded smokes
Bored souls
Experimenting
Under cover
Of the timber
Cathedrals
Lighting candles
Before wooden images
Igniting passions
Mistaking trees for gods.
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