Late afternoon.

The taste of sweat on your lips.

The smell of the sun on your skin.

But the roughness of your hand on my heart.

My martyr's temptation.

I can't move.

I can't fight.

Buds

On the still blind face of the world today

The scents were back

Filling the emptiness of everything around

With the vague recollections

Of earth and sun and leaf

Of lark and toad and bee

Moss and heather

The reason why I'm here

Suddenly remembered

The point of it all

To feel this

Again.