By a Lake In the Morning

Soft is smoke that flows over the waters resting only during dawn, then fading off into the distant hands of potters, who will make it new again, as trading long forgotten things for one another, for awhile I sat and looked at the lake trying not to make myself a bother, softly as potters went about their make, dare I breathe, as soft as feathers falling so light on something that is warm and curved, truly, sitting there I'm hardly breathing watching smoke and leaves as they have swerved, all the while I listen to the stillness when the smoke will cure a broken illness.