The chopping board smells like garlic, my fingers, too
the drift of cooking
fresh soup on the stove
outside I breathe scents of wood mulch and fertilizer
and imagine living in a Musk bubble upon Mars where scents are fewer
I smelled my friend’s fear in the car
words from her lips warning me
I heed her scent
I hear a blower and smell leaves
my husband clearing the last oak before the freeze
where after a cold rain
loose bodies of earthworms on cracked cement
sprawled their language of survival
I smell the air while biking the path through woods
I smell yesterday in an old hat
I smell tomorrow in smoke
I smell trouble ahead when I read the news
I wrap myself deeply in my husband’s arms
so often filled with chard and kale
buckets of tomatoes from the garden
his seeds gathered from plants
that sprout like rockets from manured soil
his hands that sauté onions
for soups that steam aromas of herbs
A restless dream of marmalade
orbiting between fridge and pantry
Blood orange from Sicily
Sweet Valencia from California
Divina fig orange from the Dalmatian Coast
and Dundee dark with chewy rind
still bubble wrapped from travel
once dangling from trees now winged orbs
in my liminal state conjuring scents of toast
A growl of wind around the corner of the house
hurls me awake in my body
light snow patters the windowpanes
covers sphagnum moss growing in beds by our pond
while earth whirls a glowing sunrise into tops of leafless oaks
I will wait for the crossing of day into shadow
where orange tints cast through dark maples
and wait longer for zest and sting of insects
smells of wet soil humming alive
many rotations of light into gold-rimmed shade
my home turning and returning
—
Margot Milcetich is a life-long teacher of yoga and lover of nature. She has written a memoir, Cloud Cover, of her time with Swami Bawra. Other writings include songwriting, a musical, and plays. Her poetry has been included in the Edith Chase Environmental Symposiums at Kent State University in Ohio.
