A word is a memory of talcum dust,a wind bestirring a creeper’s moon,a fragrance remembered of flowers a love imagined, a self-love passing. Strike the word to bring them back.
Smell is in a word white of memory a nose ‘s way of remembering a joy ,a strip of old sky smelling jasmines, a blouse’s back spreading it all out. Strike the word to bring them back.
Sound is in a word touching crackle of a dry firewood in predawn fires ,a fire ‘s tongues licking a darkness, a hot bathwater in copper cauldron, its bottom black like moonless sky. Strike the word to bring them back.
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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