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Vinh Dang
Poet
While walking outside on a cold winter’s day in Syracuse, I watched smoke coming out of a neighbor’s chimney. It brought back memories of my former Vietnam’s countryside. I vividly recall how animated the day at sunset was! Aloft the sky, white clouds wandering, down here the poor hamlet little by little sinks into darkness, no noises, no chaos except farmers left. The rice field, plough upon shoulder, cows and buffalos toward their stable bellowing. But what most inspired me was the greyish blue smoke flowing out of each family’s thatched roof, where mothers and wives were cooking the evening meal, promising a sweet reunion of the whole family under an oil lamp.

White clouds drifting where?
Over ocean or dark wood
Homeland hearth—blue smoke

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