Written by The Parkinson’s Poet
I miss the smell of coffee in the morn,
the captivating scent of lilacs’ bloom,
the mintiness of hay that’s freshly shorn,
the sexy subtleness of your perfume.
Oh, I can hear the sizzle of the meat;
I see you pour a pricey red Bordeaux;
I feel the baking oven’s rising heat,
but I can smell no fat or wine or dough.
I do not miss the stench of sweaty clothes
or skunks or rotten eggs or passing gas,
but I do miss the scent of rain and rose,
of eucalyptus leaves and fresh-cut grass.
I well can thrive devoid of fragrant bliss
long can I touch your skin and taste your kiss.