Olfactory
There is a single scent that sends me to an almost impossible season,
all flowers, all lovers, Autumn musk, fire, frost.
Fresh, acute, fleeting,
a dream slipping through consciousness,
the fragments unraveling, the fragrance dispersing.
Appearing randomly, out of my control
a whiff, snaps like a whip,
and must be followed down a path,
dark stairway, lost memory.
Comforting as the softest flannel, most sensuous silk, thickest underbelly fur,
given the chance, I would drown in it.
I can’t tell you the why or what for.
All I can promise is-
You will know it when you smell it.
Winter Solstice
I’m waiting
here in the dark
I’ve placed
the plum, shriveled and sweet
soaking in last summer’s almond oil
the lilies miraculously still in bloom,
and one small flame as a reminder, perhaps a beacon
on the altar of my faith, which is longing for trust
that the Vastness-
that is not me
not this planet pocked imperfect
not the dead, dying and yet to be born
not the holiest, mightiest, most vicious
not even poetry-
will reconsider,
and start the slow crawl back.
Lucinda Pinchot, RN CWOCRN (retired) from the Yale School of Medicine, started writing poetry and prose in the 1970s. She took a 30-year hiatus from poetry while working in healthcare and is now resuming her love of writing.