Invisible is perfume Image

Invisible is Perfume

In, “Invisible is Perfume,” I used to help mother tender the flowers, she’d grow them from fingertips, potting soil, and seeds.

In, Invisible is perfume; they didn’t grow by themselves. A packet was full of pieces. A package of yesterday’s dropping from a stem or old dried flower. No, it was the look in her eyes, and how she’d scuff the dirt here and there.

It was the old tin enamel painted water pot she’d use so delicately. She’d water with love. I could see it in the way she would tap, then pat with wrinkled hands. I would just watch in awe how she would grow GOD from a seed.

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Invisible is Perfume

If you see flowers in a garden,

there must be a god,

filters under a gaze— black and white.

Colorful sphere sheets in the wind.

Invisible is perfume.

My mother told me never pick them.

A soul dies every time.

The color stole leaving a dark place.

Such romantic notions.

She loved the pink-purple kind.

They reminded her of hope.

They stood sporadically middling alongside

the railroad tie and gravel.

And from gray splattered raindrops were colored pieces of god.

©2018 Linda J. Wolff (Google), and “Poetry: Invisible is Perfume.”

What is a Free Verse Poem? Typically, free verse is a patterned through speech rather than a meter. Further, this form of poetry is very open to the author’s discretion and usually does not rhyme. Such as, visual and sound effects are often employed.  It can have as many lines as the writer wishes.

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Written by 

The woman behind Wolff Poetry. A poetic wordsmith by the mind and a passionate blogger by heart. Reservoir for Wolff Poetry and mentor for youth writing groups. Life motto: Everything you seek is in the stillness of one's mind. The place between seconds, whispering of a song between sound.

11 thoughts on “Invisible is Perfume”

  1. This is a beautiful tribute to your Mother and her love for flowers, ‘particularly the ‘pink and purple ones’… It is funny the things that stay with us, like _”Perfume is invisible”_ yet it lingers in our soul and when we smell certain odours they take us to memories and feelings immediately. It’s so wonderful the way you have written this, with such sweetness… Loved the line _”And from gray splattered raindrops were colored pieces of God.”_ like these flowers that exist in a seemingly uninhabitable place of dead-wood and gravel, giving hope that we can survive emotionally, the heart-wrenching grief of losing our most beloved. A magnificent piece, Linda

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