when I weep at night

Its never the onions

sliced for supper

still lingering on my hands

long after the dishes are dried,

stacked in neat rows

behind a closed door.


You smell of crisp frosted air

and pine needles swept from the dirt path

when the wind rushes past.


I layer pepper, salt, spices

hoping to add enough flavor

to the meat on my plate.



Inspired by http://thefragrancewriter.com/2020/04/05/journey-man/

2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Jay Bleu
    Apr 11, 2020 @ 21:16:22

    Wow wow. I am very honored to have such a great poem inspired by mine! Again, so many layers to peel back everytime I read. 😉


  2. Whimsy Mimsy
    Apr 12, 2020 @ 01:10:13

    It made me think about what scents made me think of freedom and of being tied to home.


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