The Season of Kitchen Smoke, Poet - Musharraf Hussain

The Season of Kitchen Smoke

By Musharraf Hussain, Assam, India

Since the day a familiar presence left,

The empty yard has known only the wind’s breath.

Four seasons call upon your name,

Yet nothing here has felt the same.

Young rice grows, then fields turn gold,

The ancient footprints the earth still holds.

The muddy paths remember still,

A love that time cannot erase or kill.

Mother sits with betel in her hand,

Watching the lonely village land.

Her eyes follow the empty lane,

Through fading sunlight and quiet pain.

Each evening you carry water home,

To the old village well where moss has grown.

The silent stones, the timeless stream,

Still guard the echoes of a dream.

Smoke rises softly from the fire,

Thin as memories that never tire.

A fragile thread across the years,

Carrying hidden love and tears.

The evening leans on morning glory flowers,

While birds search for their resting towers.

A restless song crosses the fading sky,

As twilight slowly says goodbye.

The cat curls beside the golden straw,

The bamboo tray waits as it did before.

The empty place beside the meal

Holds all the words we cannot reveal.

The rainy season chills the trees,

The thatched roof whispers with falling streams.

Through endless nights, the cuckoo’s call

Seems to divide the heart of all.

You sit and mend your rain-worn coat,

Each stitch carries a silent note.

The needle moves, but cannot sew

The endless longing hearts may know.

Outside, the pomelo begins to bloom,

Filling the air with a gentle perfume.

White petals drift beside the river,

Like old promises that time cannot wither.

You gather each fallen flower with care,

And place it within the calendar there.

A hidden vow from years ago,

A love only the heart can know.

The passing days speak not a word,

Only the softness of time is heard.

The mirror cannot hold youth’s light,

But keeps the waiting through every night.

The banyan tree changes leaves by the stream,

Many times red, then green again in dream.

The seasons turn, the waters flow,

But some loves never learn to go.

The little boat remains tied to the shore,

Its rope held firm as it was before.

The stronger the anchor, the deeper the pain,

For waiting is love that remains.

When others ask, “Why still alone?

Why not build a life of your own?”

You smile like wind across the grass,

Letting the question quietly pass.

“He left without a promised day,

Yet I will wait along my way.

For love remembers what time cannot erase,

And loyalty keeps its sacred place.”

Mother listens beneath the rain,

Her wrinkled hands hold the coconut string again.

She says no word, she simply knows

The silent river where sorrow flows.

Each evening when the fire is bright,

You cook one more bowl beneath the light.

Then quietly you put it away,

Leaving only ashes at the end of day.

The moon rises above the village bamboo,

Lighting the path where old footsteps grew.

A falling leaf touches the ground,

You think you hear a returning sound.

You open the gate beneath the sky,

But only lonely winds pass by.

The moon hangs cold and still above,

Guarding the memory of endless love.

Four seasons pass along the stream,

Four seasons warm the waiting dream.

Kitchen smoke continues to rise,

Through humble roofs and village skies.

It carries the scent of freshly cut straw,

The fragrance of herbs after rain’s soft law.

It carries mother’s lullaby song,

The childhood memories carried long.

The smoke may never reach the city street,

Yet somehow your heart feels its heat.

Perhaps beyond the distant blue,

Someone still remembers too.

One evening when the wind crossed the bridge,

An old letter faded at the edge.

Time had touched its written line,

But could not erase what remained divine.

You sit and mend your faded shawl,

Stitching together a life’s broken call.

No blame is spoken, no tears are shown,

Only a hope quietly grown.

You wish the fire may forever remain,

With glowing embers through joy and pain.

So when he returns to the village land,

The kitchen smoke will recognize the hand—

The hand that carried distant skies,

The heart that never said goodbye.

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© Copyright © 2026

Author: Musharraf Hussain,

Assam, India

All rights reserved.