Lily of the Valley – by Slate Powell

The air trembles; a distant door has opened in a house of closed rooms.

Still asleep, the cat begins to purr.

My candle flickers once, twice, and I feel you draw close.

I lower my book and breathe deep:

Lily of the valley, Darjeeling tea, sweet hay, and warm milk.

I might conjure your voice, your step, but your scent is beyond my pale imagination.

Not for you the shadowed figure, the icy touch, the whispered word.

Instead a prayer, a poem of subtle fragrance.

You haunt me as sweetly as you loved me