Plume

Plume

A single feather drifts on summer’s sigh,
Its soft, down‑y plume a quiet, silent flight,
A blush of ivory, a hint of sky,
That lingers where the meadow meets the light.

From hearth to hearth the smoke climbs, thin and grey,
A curling plume that twists above the stone,
It tells of peat‑fired tales and kettle’s sway,
Of stories shared when night has overthrown the lone.

On distant peaks the volcano breathes its fire,
A towering plume of ash and molten stone,
It paints the horizon with a fierce desire,
Yet even in its rage, it claims its own.

So whether feather, smoke, or molten steam,
The plume reminds us—fleeting, frail, and grand—
That beauty lives in every transient dream,
And in each wisp we trace our shifting hand.