what my nose knows

like manure 

in a rose 

garden 

love is the 

messy warmth 

decomposing 

my defenses 

the wet 

wisdom making 

fertile 

my nakedness 

the stinky and dark 

dissolution of my

hard outer shell 

surrendered to 

in the brief but 

singular chance 

of becoming 

something fresh 

this 

my nose 

knows, 

that 

the sweetness 

of the rose 

is married 

to the stench 

of manure

but do I? 

and so too 

this,

my nose knows,

the wisdom 

that the beauty

of the blossom  

is not merely 

sensual

-but so too 

symbolic 

that the real 

beauty 

is the 

the courage 

to vulnerably 

become 

delicate and soft 

even in a world

full of 

cynicism and 

cement sidewalks.

my nose 

knows 

there are much 

safer 

or easier 

things,

much more 

pungently 

aromatic things

to become 

-or rather 

to remain 

that a world 

constructed with 

cement 

and cynicism 

is a world that reeks 

of despair 

or worse

–indifference  

my nose 

knows 

that the 

sweetness 

of the rose

is sweet 

in direct

proportion 

to the 

pervading 

fragrant 

bitterness. 

and 

yet 

somehow 

it knows 

that 

there’s 

already 

enough 

odorous 

indifference

in the world – 

and so 

the risk 

to grow

in the stinky mess  

to be green

in a world of grey

to bloom

despite the bitterness 

is worth 

even 

the most 

subtle

whiff

of a 

world

reimagined. 

but do I?