Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Honeysuckle I, II & IV

May 10, 2005


What is it in the
scent of honeysuckle
which takes me home,
brings me life
when spring is new;
hanging in the air
like the scent of memory?

What thoughts rush forward,
abstract and ever untouched,
at the slightest whiff of
pale yellow, peach
and ochre blooms?

There must be a sanctity
to that scent...

I imagine the spirit bears a fragrance
as haunting as the honeysuckle.
I dream that heaven's incense
is none other than that
creeping, clinging,vining,
aromatic perennial
outside my window.


Honeysuckle bears the scent
of many dreams,
many doubts,
many hours
spent longing for you,
seeking wisdom in the shades
and fragrances around my door..

Roses I've sown,
lilies I've grown,
purple plums I've brought home
and planted in the tiny plot I own.

Yet only that honeysuckle,
out back at the fence-
the one thing I didn't plan-
reminds me
every moment of its blooming
that I never planned to know,
never planned to need,
never planned to love you.


Where lies hope
when scent of honeysuckle
fails to draw me from despair?
The perfumed honey of its fragrance
has ever been a muse,
a comfort in these years
of grief.

Its nectar finds my senses dull;
its blooming meets my vision,
Its hardy, green and clinging vine
finds my heart concerned
with matters pressing hard
upon reality,
far too heavy laden
to wonder at its resilience,
thriving now after harsh winter
in a half whiskey-barrel,
roots above ground,
frozen and forgotten.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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