Pipe Poems: The Most Perfect Smoke

The Most Perfect Smoke
This world weighs heavy on my soul recently,
and my pipes aren’t as good as they once used to be.
So I’m taking a hike far away from it all,
To gather my thoughts on a crisp day in fall.

My tobacco is packed and ready to smoke,
And other than prayer, my last word is spoke.
Through hills and dales and fields and trees,
I watch as the animals play in the leaves.

And I perch on a tree that has long since been broke,
And everything aligns for the most perfect smoke.
But my heart becomes heavy as the moment is ripe,
Since I’ve trod all this way and forgotten my pipe.