I was a smoker
For a time

Hand on jutted hip
Fingers trembled
Inhaling a darkness
Too pale to match my own

I quit for my husband and the children he promised me
I quit as the spirit of rebellion burned out
... I had nothing left to feed it

Now I walk past ephemeral fingers of death
And I cough and choke
The only memory their lashes whipping chest and throat

I walk away and I can breathe again
The swell of nausea sinks in my belly
Begging me to remember
What I gave up is nothing to what I have

I was leaving class one afternoon when I caught the tail of someone's cigarette smoke exhalation.  Smokers don't annoy me.  It's not an us-them feeling.  It was just the passing of one of my own personal demons.  This was written January 18. 

If I must have clouds
Then give me rain
If the sky is clear
I would be marked with summer stain
I would bask in the light of our warming sun
To live as free as a child born to run
I do not fear the dark under clouds
But the silence of weariness
Would force a mourning shroud
So give me sun
... And a bit of shade
And I'll share my warmth
Until the sun will fade.

I wrote this one January 17 when my son and I were waiting for the heater to kick in before getting him to his preschool class.  It was a five minute poetry session.