An effleurage between
sheets of my heart,
Joy macerates in barrels
of the soul.
Or like a baby growing
in the womb.
Why, self, are you
so downcast?
Because I’ve been hurt
so many times before.
Though tiny buds of joy
begin to bloom,
My brokenness takes time.
I’ll be made whole,
Accepting that the clouds
one day will part.
the fragrance writer 
Thanks. It’s also a method of capturing perfume from flowers!
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Thank you 😃
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Nice interpretation 🌻
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I thought ‘effleurage’ was a type of massage. Anyway, it works here. Love the poem.
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