Recall, oh little, much-loved one,
you have been in--and
(more importantly) out--
of this before.
The impulse toward tightness
and dimness and sleep,
the hounding in toward only
one scant hope (to be small
enough to do no harm)--
this, my dear, is the sneeze
and not the ultimate use
of the nose.
There is still the most bountiful
breadth of smells: manure and
lily-of-the-valley and summer rain,
bread and coffee and warm blasts
from washing. These remain.
And you, too, will walk among them,
rejoicing.
you have been in--and
(more importantly) out--
of this before.
The impulse toward tightness
and dimness and sleep,
the hounding in toward only
one scant hope (to be small
enough to do no harm)--
this, my dear, is the sneeze
and not the ultimate use
of the nose.
There is still the most bountiful
breadth of smells: manure and
lily-of-the-valley and summer rain,
bread and coffee and warm blasts
from washing. These remain.
And you, too, will walk among them,
rejoicing.
With bread and coffee, you've sent me back two dozen years, to the week I spent in the monastery at Spencer. One of the highlights came one morning toward midweek: Fr Simon's freshly baked bread! Which I think I had with coffee in a large metallic cup.
ReplyDeleteThat's a lovely memory! There seems something sacred about the smell of fresh bread.
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