Chop (an acrostic poem)

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Cutting wood and working up a sweat

He fell into a rhythm that made the job almost pleasurable

Only his hands, his back, and his arms would claim otherwise

Perhaps it wasn’t pleasurable at all

Smoke (an acrostic poem)

Smelling the wood burning brought it all back

Memories of singing and dancing

Of friends that became family

Knowing that the night was never going to be long enough

Eventually the fire died, but I will always have that scent

 

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