A bruised blossom bleeds the strongest perfume.
A laywoman's potions - vials of perfume.
The light notes, the sweet notes, are the first notes to die.
A child sneaks a touch of her mother's perfume.
The mid notes are family to which you belong.
Girlhood gives way - the crush to perfume
the base notes that fix you and hold you in place.
Pine, pine - humility's perfume,
the mix of a Merlin, the Guinevere's Lace
I wear at my throat and call simply perfume.
Kind of rough, but I didn't want to miss out on Susie's prompt at Real Toads.
I have 3 poems in the latest issue of The Woven Tale Press. It's a gorgeous publication. If you love art, I highly recommend checking it out.