The Smell of Spring

That smell.

The cold air on the heaters pushing the cold from the shower

That wakes you up in the morning

That’s my Jasmine Tea, my blissful addiction.

The time’s coming for euphoria, for come-ups and for rebirth.

The tectonic plates of our faces will change again, the cascading waves at the top of our pores

Will ring opalescent in shifting beauty obscured by bright eyes.

This is where Shia just did it.

This is where Donovan sat and talked about an empty Baltimore.

This is where I became self-assured.

Even though the season’s in peak bitter,

Peppermint schnapps gales hit us with the same burn

And refuse us warm bellies,

The background is stark, white, and cold.

The dormant things lie in wait for the first kiss of spring’s promise

When the air soothes, not stings

When the daffodil harbingers make their brave venture

And colonize their space under the namesake of beauty.

A garden of eden appeared under closed eyes,

And all it took was a whiff of its potent nostalgia.


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