Scents of Home
Sometimes,
in the early morning
My
daughter climbs into our bed
And
presses her head into the
Curve
of my shoulder. The searching
Of
her long hair between my lips
Smells
like honey and salt, warm bread
Pulled,
perfectly, from the oven.
When
I was a child, sometimes I
would
awake in the sterile hours
of
midnight to the sound of my
mother’s
fingers plucking at the
bronze
and steel strings of her guitar
in
a distant room while voices
sang
songs of young girls and soldiers,
of
autumn mist and loneliness.
They
say that scent makes memory.
I
think of this as I slice through
The
white meat of a green apple
To
the small, timid seeds inside.
Sage,
red onion and roasting broth,
Ginger,
corn bread and cinnamon
Glaze
the rise and fall of laughter
Drifting
from the room just beyond.
Man
and children to seed the breadth
of
my arms, making scents of home.
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