What if, instead of dying flowers, perfume
smelled like mountaintops, like granite
and fir-filtered wind? Breezes lift our feet
from the rock and fragrance-scented air
buoys us up over golden rows of mountains.
You laugh like a child taking his first step
out onto the taut surface of water
and instead of sinking, we skate
on that tensile surface that quivers
like my heart when you reach
the long pin freathers of your wings
and wrap them all light and tickle
and remember around me.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
first poem on Ipad,