Think of the hypnotizing scent of two ripe peaches in a bowl,
how they can perfume the farthest corner of the house,
and magnify it. Imagine then the riches of the peach orchard,
rows of apricots and nectarines, pluots and plums of every hue.
It seems that every seed has sprouted, borne a pea or ear
or globe of something, with its special odor, like tomatoes
on the vine, a strong and spicy scent, natural insecticide,
and there is more beneath my feet—even the roots are edible,
although they smell at first of earth. I have to watch so I don’t trip
over the cantaloupe, with its reticulated rind, tiny striped
watermelons patterned like the baby tapir at the zoo
hiding among vines. I love the blooming Jasmine, so sweet
it knocks me backwards when I crack open the screen door
to get the mail. The white roses, way past their prime,
loll loose-petaled, sideways on their stems like drowsing
concert goers, and yet their smell seems more intense,
not less, than the tightest buds of spring. Yellow angel’s
trumpet hang upside down, stilled bells, oversized silk hats,
their concentrated sweetness almost a sound. In the evening,
moths broadcast their musk, something like vanilla.
This time of year, everything is in the business of attraction,
even the swollen Strawberry Moon, brightest berry
on the vine, makes us yearn. I get down on my knees
and sniff the earth.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 2.
Robbi Nester is the author of five books of poetry, including an ekphrastic collection that is forthcoming from Shanti Arts this year sometime. She has also edited three anthologies and currently hosts and curates two monthly virtual reading series, Verse Virtual Poetry Reading and Open Mic, and Words With You, part of The Poetry Salon Online. Learn more about her and her work at http://www.robbinester.net.
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