SMELL THE ROSES, EAT THE BREAD

I love the balance of things. 

The pendulum of life.

New soul into old,

and unscathed clay forms a mold.

You smell the roses and you eat the bread.

Whatever you feel that means, you’d be correct. 

Mother Nature flows through me to intersect,

my vessel to the art's concept. 

Flora into fauna,

Para ti, mi alma. 

The brink of fear falls into beauty,

and into beauty, a woman’s maidenhead.

It’s a dream you remember in bed, 

no closer than it is far, far from your head. 

It exists in the World Away- 

always in growth, always in play.

My hands take me there, every other day.

Retreating inward just to come back and say-

You smell the roses-

and you eat the bread-

and whatever that means, you’d be correct. 

Today you have much to inspect,

I’m glad you’re here, I’m glad we connect.

This world into your head,

My creations, oh, how they pled.  

“Look into me”, “ look into thee”, as nostalgia rings- 

I live with these cravings. 

I choose to lose myself in things.

Withering folds into blossoming bulbs,

where no time can find its foothold. 

The closer you are, the less you see. 

So smell the roses and eat the damn bread.

Because whatever you think that means, you are correct.

Grace Womack