On a soft summer eve I beheld
old Aeolus pursing his lips and
softly puffing small spurts of wind like
a cigar connoisseur savoring an Arturo Fuente
I was mesmerized in a timeless interlude
dreaming of Odysseus with his bag of winds,
a gift of the blowzy old god to sail home, but
his crew tore it open, fating all to a long voyage
My loss was less acute than his
The cumulus cloud just drifted away
and my whimsical reverie evaporated
like those pent up clouds in the infamous bag
I couldn't let go of that image,
a huge Falstaffian face in the sky
This product of my imagination
gave me pause
What could be lurking in my subconscious?
A Jungian archetype, of course, but
why surface now?
Or, perhaps I crave an Arturo Fuente?
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