He’ll smell of wet leaves when we blend.
Fine trace of lace and lily stem.
Of clumps of clay and pressed Wild Pink;
Droplets of cloud-colored ink.
He’ll recreate the meaning of
A taste of death;
The scent of love.
Like silver slivers of a dream,
He’ll stir in me a shade unseen.
He’ll feel like branches, mica stone.
Like cold, cobwebbed canary bones,
And windswept feathers sometime lost,
Rotting ‘neath moth-eaten moss.
The true fixation of my soul —
To haunt a ghost
He’ll smell of a wildflower field.
I’ll breathe him in; I will be healed.
- Amy Strom, (2013).