Scent

Tendrils arise, the scent of roses wafts
upwards. Pink ringlets dominate the air, entering
my nose, going deep into the crevices of my mind.

Old houses reside, untouched rooms,
covered by layers of dust. Rust. In the forgotten
troves of memory do they hide--needing a hand
to pull them out, a comforting smile.
Unseen photographs, unappreciated grins,
unheard stories of success--cowering at the back,
like a novice before a grand concert, like a writer
before her first release.

Daffodils, pancake batter, blue ice-cream,
lavender perfume, freshly washed clothes;
musty books and the scents that accompany--
have magic fingers, pulling out shy, uncertain
memories, bringing them to the fore. Opening up
that adamant door, letting the thoughts spill outwards,
flooding my mind. Letting me experience what I could
never find.

They have a subtle power within them, scents do. As
as I inhale deeply, I discover old pages
of my story. Torn pages, that were pieced together
by a force I cannot describe, but can only sense.
As long as I breathe, I am powerful; and as long as I
sense what I perceive, I am invincible.