At the First Scent of Daylight
It’s never what you think
when you step into the afternoon
sky, the indoor world behind you,
asleep in the sleeping bed, cats and all.
It’s not the cold wood smell
of dusk, a little coal, a little pine,
or the smell of high noon,
clothes evaporating rain water
on or off the line.
It’s not the middle of the dark
when you were eight, screeching brakes
a block away, escaping a dream
that smells like wet leaves and grapefruit.
No, it’s more like a spray of sea
without the salt water, a relief,
the flight of grasshoppers, the mechanics
of daylight opening the wings
in everything, even you.
Photo by Seksun Guntanid, courtesy Shutterstock. Photo of Caryn Mirriam–Goldberg by Stephen Locke.