Writers on Writing
Poetry
Scent of Wet Words
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The smell of resinous grey-green sage is
pine trees and Thanksgiving. Lemon verbena brings memories of polishing heirloom furniture. My mother set out sun-yellow forsythia to bloom on the piano in winter. I always pick mint when I rove forests and brooks. Like a flute solo of lingering musical notes, these moments become my prayers. Poetry enfolds me, picks me up and throws me into a clear pool, the words close, splashing, over my head. I bob up, take a grateful deep breath searching with my toes for the earth. The sky deep blue above runs down, streaming off the ends of my hair, out through my fingertips as I type. |
