for Colette and Bob
Tonight I wear gratitude
like perfume made of jasmine
and violet. Wear it
on my neck, my forearms,
in my hair, on my wrists.
If I could, I would find
the poem’s pulse points
and spritz it here, too,
so that as the poem warms,
it would release its greener
middle notes of basil and rose
so you might enjoy them, too.
Gratitude, like perfume,
changes the longer you wear it—
you think it is one thing,
but then it opens in new layers
and eventually, becomes one with the skin.
Only then does it reveal
its lingering base—in this case
vanilla and cedar,
creamy and sensual.
To wear gratitude is
like slipping into a long
and silken robe. Like sitting
beside a fire made by people you love.
Like walking alone in the house,
and knowing for certain
you’re not at all alone.
