My Garden Of Scents

 

At the end of the day, my concerns arrive numb at nothingness, not failing, for all that I fancy to be the special scents in my garden, water them from my can of silver, each bug I pick up with bare hands, soil my shirts in the sandy loam, of pots painted with my brightest brushes, fascinate me no more.

What if I want to scent and sniff no more? Not failing, I ask my senses.