Writers on Writing
Scent of Wet Words
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.