still

Wet honey cedar lilies, 

though there are no cedars, 

nor lilies.

A memory of the inside of a grandmother's chest of drawers,

or some fine French soap I've never known.

It's so easy, and so hard to want things to last

and to want only to be quick and light and unable to hold back.

Released.  Unleashed.

Cycle of bloom and fade, 

fruit and decay, this is not always comforting,

but still true.