The Scent Of Heart
By llbarkat
The scent of heat, the scent of sweet, the heart of gold,
So might we use a mortar and pestle
To make it hands-on,
To feel the crushing, the pressure
Of grinding down to just-right measure.
I feel heavy with reason.
Is a chink to slight,
To house the ambrosia
Of my love for you.
Give it over, then,
To Feverfew.
A mortar, crushing smell, crushing heat, crushing life,
Grinding fever, grinding cloves, grinding hearts and crowns.
It is scent rising,
Filling the room with nature’s odes
To what’s most natural,
Golden pillow of shame and regret,
Cultivating nothing but my love for you.
Methinks the grinding must needs stop a while
Lest we have nothing left
About which to sing.
The grinding turns all to powder,
To shift with the wind,
To move to the skies of cloves, of walls, of laurels.
Pummel me with bay,
Cinnamon spears;
No one will discern
The aroma of my
Salt-swelled tears.
Did you think
You could tend my heart
With only the most
Casual methods of cultivation?
No, I think that not.
Your heart requires such tender
Care as leaves me
Unable to tend the garden of my love.
I found such chink
There
In that wall
You climbed last night,
The wall you did break down,
The wall of broken dreams.
Shame and regret
Set out on golden pillow
Sparkling with abandoned crowns
Of laurel.
You break down the wall