It was weeks ago now
that first month of September we spent here on this island,
still hot and balmy.
I wanted a scratch and sniff for you,
some clever little corner of the screen
so that I could share this most perfect thing:
the smell of beach roses, all briney.
They were abundant outside of the cottage,
and each time I passed, I wondered how I had gotten so lucky –
that they had become like dandelions in my life.
Hardy, scrappy and perfectly soft all at the same time,
nestled in their rocky, sandy homes. smelling like heaven –
round, round hips.
I wanted to eat them, be them.
and I wanted you to smell them
as if sharing them would somehow
exponentially increase the delight
or make the sense more real.
But it was mine alone
and exquisite all the same.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen— You are a hundred wild centuries And…
This is what you need to know: you need to know that otters wrap themselves…
How did I come to be this particular version of me, and not some other,…
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