A Poem A Day by Romilly Wilde

A curl of smoke from chimney steep

Spirals into the morning’s sleep.

It tells of bread, of warmth, of flame,

Of waking hands with no acclaim.

The forest gave, the hearth returns—

A trade of ash for what it burns.

And every soul who breathes it in

Feels part of something old and kin.

From A Poem A Day: All Continental Europe