The Smell of Wood-Smoke
June 11 2008


I like the smell of wood-smoke
fresh-cut grass
green hay,
stacked in a tin-roof barn
where light angles-in between the slats.

And the first thaw of spring,
with its pungent smell
of decomposition
and snow mould.
Later, the earthy scent of fertile soil
you can’t resist digging-in,
bare fingers
raking through its sun-warmed wetness.

There is one day late in spring
you would freeze-frame, if you could
— every leaf fresh
on its firm thick stem;
every blossom unblemished;
and the lawn, newly cut
luminescent.
The shadows are long
and the birds have been calling for hours.
The early morning mist lifts-off
leaving every blade and petal
with tiny pearls of water.
And the smell of hot black coffee
and fresh cut grass
perfumes the garden.
Even the weeds can’t offend,
dandelions, scattered about
like yellow polka-dots on a cotton dress.

This moment soon will end
in the decadence of summer.
So I drink it in,
inhaling its sweet intoxicating scent.
Until I forget
in the bittersweet smoke
of fall.