The art and the act of smoking a pipe

When the match is struck, there is a flare and a blaze.
The flame bows low; breathed in to touch the leaf.
Triumphant white bursts emit -
this is fanfare, this is light!

Then you take deep draughts - pulling bright, glowing orange.
Down inside the bowl; dry pops and a crackle.
Oh!  You settle in now.
Sitting back, you recline.

Here, your mind may calm - pensive and ponderous.
The places you've smoked before, the thoughts you've had.
Alone, or with companion.
Drifting to mind, they swirl, then fade:

-- Huddled on a frozen porch - inside, but out --
-- Lady Ithaca's clockface, her footbridge above the falls --
-- Moonlight pacific ocean - endless salty wind --
-- A canyon's sheer wall, rising beside the domed tent --
-- Soft in a jungle's armchair, warm and silent --
-- And now, on institutions' doorstep, in Delhi's heart --

Halfway through is quiet - midlife, and maybe burning out.
But then, always, if you've done it right,
your pipe rekindles, it matures!
This is glory, this is truth!

Contemplation turns to joy - moments stretch to hours.
All that was - you know it will ever be.
And the pipe becomes your hair,
your clothes, your fingers, and your face.

This... is the art and the act of smoking a good pipe.