The Scent of a Campfire – A poem

Mountain morning, brisk
Air chills me – I pull my sweatshirt closer.
The fog’s wispy
fingers cling to the day,
Despite the suns attempt to warm us.

The stillness has cleared my mind.
In the quiet, he starts a fire.
In the routine moments of a quiet morning – I am new again.
I am new. I’ve never been more grateful
For being made to wait.

When we woke, the stillness comforted.
His arms were wrapped around me – holding me close.
He whispered a question, not the first time.
I replied, as I always do, “I’ve never been happier than I am now.”
I turned onto my back and caught his smile.

When our campfire breakfast and coffee was done,
We sat side by side as the sun burned off what remained of the fog.
The towering trees rustled in the breeze and I felt certain
I’d never been more grateful –
For him, for the wind in trees, and for the scent of a campfire on a brisk morning.

– E.M. Morgan