To Crisis

The smoke curled like an unfinished sentence,

Like a sigh in a silent room,

Like a question mark, floating on warm breath

In tendrils.

We were all sitting still around a candle

Faded out after a night of wishes

And snowflakes.

Waiting for a few words and then a “?”

Eyes stared into the ceiling as if it were oblivion

But I stared into the smoke.

I watched it twist, and swirl, and caress, and disappear

Like a dancer during the last counts of a song,

Then the question was asked, the candle was out, and the smoke was gone.