From the wild garden of rare and ordinary flowers
the powerful, ardent scent drifted inexorably
into the middle of my life,
curled around my frightened nose, my tightly-wound hair,
issuing the gentlest and most insistent of invitations.
Inhale the aroma, rushing past your big, grasping brain.
Flowing past clashing clutter
of decades-long struggle,
neatly side-stepping synapses soaked in sorrow—
that delirious scent spirals like sacred smoke
into the space in my fractured heart
that was forgotten, empty, waiting:
These words are caresses that have waited my whole life to be expressed.
There is no doubt in my mind that they were destined for you.
It’s no use to seek a ubiquitous garden.
The flowers make themselves known at any distance,
floating their essence into the dark,
finding their mark, intuiting
the ready heart,
the loosened tresses,
the nostrils flared,
the trembling, soft lips,
scared but offered
in full bloom.