SMOKE

Looking into the cigar smoke, I notice the subtle motion. As the movement slows, it draws my attention closer. I cannot explain the poetry of this moment. It is complex and simple in the same instant. Many years of experience, from the growers to the rollers, are released into the air in front of me. I can imagine the care and time it took to bring the leaves to maturity. The knowledge, held by the farmers, who know the exact time to harvest. The pride that must be felt in knowing that your hard work has paid off and the crop is perfect. The practice of capturing a piece of time that will be shared by many. As only, a true artist can do. Then, I think of the aging process and waiting for the leaves to be just right. There is no rush in perfection. As I look at the ash and the wavy lines that run around it, I am taken aback by the precision of the rollers. I swear my pallet detects the taste of the air, on the day that the cigar was formed by the rollers’ hands. If I listen hard enough, I can hear the haunting voices of the rollers. The stories of daily life, family, and friends can only be told in the midst of work on the factory floor. I flick away the first clump of ash and soon notice the change in taste that only a master blender can comprehend and create. As the heat burns its way the body of my Cigar, I am pleased with my few moments of relaxation and reflection. I leave only as much as I have to and put it down. After watching the dying smoke fade from the ashtray, I am able to walk away with a sense of gratuity and respect for the many hard-working people in the whole process. I cannot wait for my next smoke and the pleasure that it will bring.