Winter Writing Sanctuary, 2.1. Exchanging Words, Invitation H: The Meeting

At her table

Don’t worry, 

She tells me.

And I am 

wrapped in

her arms

and hair. 

There are

few words

to describe this

collapse

into her

smell. 

But it is as

familiar

as my 

daughter’s 

cinnamon-

ny

moon 

cheeks

and moles. 

Embraces

are paragraphs

and novels

made of

scent. 

I’m happy

to be utterly, 

wordlessly

lost in

them. 

Justine C. Tajonera