I once loved a women so passionately that where ever I went her perfume was with me.
But after breaking my heart into a thousands shards of glass, it was time to move on. But
often when walking down a trail in the woods near sundown I can smell her presence.
My soft woman, what do you smell of,
of what fruits
of what star, of what leaf?
Near your small ear
or upon your forehead I lean over,
I thrust my nose in your hair and your smile
Seeking, knowing its source:
it is soft, but not a flower, not the slash of
or the reckless aroma of violent jasmine.
It is something, it is earth, it is moist summer air,
with woods and apples and ponds,
the odor of light on your skin but hidden.
It is the odor of stone and river
to the warm secret palpation of blood,
of a waterfall crisscrossed with moon.
It rises and falls upon your breasts
And mouth the fragrance of forgotten
places and plants.
I smell the wave of light that rises,
the warm fruit submerged in its fragrance,
that night thirteen years ago you first breathed
in my ear the breathe of blood that runs
through your beauty
until it arrives in the kiss,
the kiss of your aroma.