People say smiles don’t have scents
Nor styles
Nor choice of textile
And Yet
And YET
The smell
The perfume
Is what I recall first
of the moment
of that day
of that man
Breathing in beauty
A riot of joy, of colour, of beauty
And there he was, a part of it
The morass of colour, of scent, of *life*
Of everything, everywhere
*And there he was*
People say love doesn’t have a colour, or a scent
People say the same thing about things like smiles
Reader, he turned around – and smiled, and I knew
Reader, I married him – and we planted wildflowers around our house