Must Be The Wind

I caught a whiff of perfume once

it summoned a tapestry in my head,

stirred a seething pot in visions,

as I knew the woman who has that scent

somehow would be a rose,

a perfect fragrance from some garden

where I could thrive

be so very alive

take this insanity

and wipe it away like a chalkboard,

build anew some house

filled with all the things

that I had never owned.

 

Then I chased that aroma

across a field and through the night

left sweaty and exhausted,

my eyes stinging and heart pounding,

but without a kiss or touch

to take me where I craved

beyond this litter laden life.

 

Still held onto that idea

somewhere that origin of sweet odors

had a face and place I could dwell,

only it just remained a vapor

another smell without a promise

must be the wind

was my quivering complaint

like the clouds I dreamt as pillows

who never could be reached.