The scent of burning wood hangs heavy in the air.

Hugging the face like an over thick scarf.

Watering the eyes with intensity.

Crowding out the fresh air.

A stampede with consequences.

The death of comfort away from prying eyes indoors.

***

People treat celebration like it is going out of style.

The smoke is not from my fire.

Every other house but mine is sending a tribute to the sky.

A great chapel that everyone else has forgotten the purpose of.

Not an act to drive away the cold like in times of old.

A manifestation of suffocating tradition.

***

I too yearn for that ideal picture.

A cold day, warm drink, and a roaring fire.

The kind of comfort found in fuzzy socks.

But there are too many of us for that to come true.

There is always more air in a dream.

Enough comfort to go around.

***

I knew the rules and did not partake.

In end it never even mattered.

Everyone else stoked the flames.

Change out of my tiny hands.

Taken from me before it could even begin.

As transient as wood smoke.