Wisteria
The lone purple Violet almost escaped my notice
As I tromped along the woodland path.
But there she was,
Peeping out through the mat of rotted oak and poplar leaves.
Tombstones of last year’s Fall,
Sheltering this year’s harbinger of Summer.
I couldn’t smell her fragrance,
For her five tiny petals barely emitted a scent.
Yet I know that if I’d stooped down and
Tenderly cradled the lone blossom between my thumb and forefinger,
Drawing it up to my nose,
She would have perfumed my senses.
I felt satisfied that I’d stopped along the trail,
And used my sandled foot to point her out to my husband.
Why take the time to sniff the forest floor?
The previous day I’d exited the van,
Gasping in the heady perfume of something.
Honeysuckle? Could it be?
“We love Honeysuckle!”, sang the children,
As they danced around trying to spy vines.
Sitting on a bench, overwhelmed by the odor,
I gazed upon a screen of Wisteria, blanketing oaks-
Smothering them?
The way the stench smothered me
A perfume so pleasurable,
My senses couldn’t withstand it.
Yet, I could not escape its infiltration,
Until I left that place,
Reentering my own world,
Of moldy shoes, stale peanut butter sandwiches,
And coffee splattered on the console.
I had longed to escape those smells.
The smell of normalcy,
Of a family van,
The van of “Name That Smell” fame.
Our van!
I do believe I’m weary of Wisteria…
It permeated the wind and lured me in,
Carried me away with promises….
Many succumb to the lure of sensual perfumes.
Purple robes enthrall them, too,
Until they become entangled, weighed down in velvet pomposity,
With a headache from the hangover.
My friend, beware Wisteria!
Fashion a nosegay of Violets plucked by your small child.
Pin it over your heart.
Inhale her fragrance.
For Violet, IS!
Stacy Peterson
April 17, 2013
