Freshly Cut Grass - May 29 2022

 

Freshly Cut Grass

May 29 2022

The smell of fresh-cut grass.

Hay, drying in a field

with its mix of earthy and sweet.

And with your nose almost touching

sniffing a baby's head;

your own child, especially.

Just-baked bread

cooling on the rack.

A rare steak

searing on the grill.

A cup of steaming coffee

in a classic diner mug,

the one with the white enamel finish

and thick smooth rim.

A forest at dawn,

redolent

of spruce and pine

pungent balsam.

Loamy soil, just after it's thawed.

The first drops of rain

on a hot summer day

on sun-baked pavement.

Your lover

after a long time away

the moment you step inside.

We are visual creatures.

We neglect our sense of smell,

which is dull, to begin with.

But now, cutting the grass

I breath deeply in

and pause;

instantly back

to the long forgotten child

behind the manual mower

on that postage stamp lawn

my father took such pride in.

Somewhere

in some deep recess of the brain

where the past continues to live.

Even though we're primarily visual creatures, smell can be powerful. Especially the tight link between smell and both memory and emotion. It leaves me wondering how the world seems to my dogs, who — unlike us — have such acute noses and swim in a rich olfactory sea.

Because poetry should be more visceral than intellectual, more immersed than detached, and more sensational than analytical, I very intentionally try to include sound and smell, as well as touch, into mine. Here, smell is everything!

The smell of the first drops of rain/on hot black pavement is called “petrichor”. I would have used that as the title — I think it's an intriguing word that would draw a curious reader in — but I've already used it, and rarely let myself repeat a title.

I have a set of those diner mugs, and love them. Coffee tastes and smells better in such heavy vessels that feel so substantial in your hand, and with your lips on that thick smooth rim.