PUTTING THE AROMA
BACK IN THE BOTTLE
My paints smell of your hands, and my hands smell of you.
I can't dismiss the meaning of that - here I am, blue for
sky, green for the grass, quaintly re-packing these tubes
of paint. I had a nice easel-box once but some bastard
stole it. My brushes, if not quickly cleaned, begin to
resemble a dead rooster's comb. I don't want that
around. But, anyway, as I said, things here remind me
of you - odor and aroma, scent and salve. This morning,
in the 6-inch snow and the frozen air, nothing smelled
like anything at all, and the white snow squeaked beneath
my boots. It was pre-dawn, and I couldn't find a real
color for that. Fantasy, maybe - the azure of attention,
the gray of the lines of your face, the pink and the hue of
something else. I'll chance it all, just walking back now
in the same new snow. How to be putting the aroma
back in the bottle now is something I just don't know.
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