My toil’s lit
by heaven’s light,
I’m digging through
the weeds.
But dig, instead,
my heart’s delight
and unsure where
it leads.
I turn, I toss, I
scatter stones
[desires] tear
them down,
But for what purpose,
I don’t know,
a heart was
never found.
Chasing, running,
catch the wind?
delusions
that I seek?
Sometimes I have to
hug myself,
and hope that
Spring will come
this week.
the fragrance writer 