Senses
I enjoy the smell of ironing.
The steam suspended burn of crisp pleats and smooth collars.
I enjoy the smell of noodle soup
A signal of the sabbath, healing, and love.
I enjoy the smell of challah
Braided twists of yeasty  bread, crusty and tender. 
I enjoy the violet lilies and lilacs
My father nurtured without a green thumb.
I enjoy the red roses so formal,
  tight with piercing thorns that I once shunned.
I enjoy the bright yellow dandelions
Tenacious signs of seed puffs to come.
I enjoy the fecund smell of cow manure
As I ride country roads which were once mine.
I enjoy the wind when it is still, silent,
And the swish that musses my hair and brushes along my cheeks, 
I enjoy the pudgy fingers wrapped in my hand.
The wet kisses of a baby’ pursing lips
I love being  a sensible person.
 

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