Pouring the red wine
into the skillet to deglaze
the fond of caramelized onion
and mushrooms and thyme,
in an instant
the whole house is infused
with blackberry, minerals,
spices and heather—
or so says the label.
I smell long afternoons
in the tall grass, or rainy
evenings beside a fire, or
candlelight reflected
in dark windows—
not really memories,
but possibilities.
Sometimes I believe
in a future so strong
that traces of it
reach into the past
and serve as breadcrumbs
to show us our path.
Can you smell it, too,
blackberry, perhaps,
and crushed green grass,
sweet golden beeswax,
the bite of wood smoke?