Come slowly -- Eden!
Lips unused to Thee --
Bashful -- sip thy Jessamines --
As the fainting Bee --
Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums --
Counts his nectars --
Enters -- and is lost in Balms.
Eight thousand miles
from my childhood home,
I'm pulled into a nostalgic
reverie
by the scent of straw
and cow shit.
This place,
on the other side of the world,
looks nothing like where I
grew up,
but that smell...
the rice fields
are at their most verdant;
scent of rain.
a fish market, broken down for the day -- yet, its scent still grows.
the acrid smell of burnt gun-smoke dulls in the mind, but not in the air the brain tires of smelling it, and so it fades, but it has nowhere to go -- not in this violent place of dead & heavy air
Tiger Riding for Beginners 