Of Smells
You smell grim you know
And even though you are not so old
The skin around your eyes fold,
Into a thousand crinkles.
And when I look at you
Unaware, I often wonder,
Why you stare transfixed at nothing.
All the while, the nicotine swirls upward,
Settling into your beard making it smoky…
And underneath your social mask
You would rather have me believe
Rests a hard heart, much like the wood
And metal, in which you revel.
I take your hands in mine, lined and coarse
Black soot from your work with a burning smell
And inhale you in, all at once
And the rains come sweeping down upon my soul
I look up as the wildflowers sprout
On the dried cracked earth of your heart
Your hands cup my face in loving grace
All I get within my core,
Is the sweet smell of Petrichor.