I press my nose to the purple pillow
and I smell
the ghost of cigarette smoke
and salt from the winds that blow off the sea
the grey scent of fog, hanging expectantly in the air
and pines and roses
and all things that grow
all drinking in the ever-present rain.
And, all right, I admit it, this I?m probably imagining,
but I can almost smell
jelly beans?
orange yellow pink white black (ick) green red
sneak into the kitchen, peek around
only Granny's there
reach for the jar with pleading eyes
and she nods
and laughs
in her gravelly voice
full of smoke and rain.

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