# The Fleeting Dance of Smoke

## Rising from the Embers

On a still evening, I light a small fire in the backyard. Flames lick the wood, and soon smoke begins its quiet ascent. It curls upward in lazy spirals, gray threads weaving through the dusk. No rush, no force—just a natural lift from warmth below. Watching it, I feel time slow. Smoke doesn't cling to the ground; it seeks the sky, free and unburdened.

## What Vanishes, What Stays

Smoke shapes shift as they rise: a face here, a hand there, gone in a breath of wind. It reminds me of days that blur into weeks. Worries twist like those wisps, intense for a moment, then scattered. Joys, too—laughter with friends, a child's first steps—bloom bright before fading. Yet the fire endures. Its heat warms hands and hearts long after the last plume dissolves into night.

## A Simple Invitation

This is smoke's gift: a mirror to our lives. It asks us to notice the brief beauty, to sit with the source of our own warmth—connections, small routines, quiet hopes. No grand lessons, just this: hold the moment lightly, like breath through fingers.

*In the space where smoke clears, clarity waits.*