Eden
By Monica Sharp
Their heads like cabbages atop thin stalks
Bow in the garden under the weight of the dew
In the breeze off the slope.
Stop and smell them, she urged me. Go on.
I tipped my nose into the center of the whorl
Met by metal, velvet, a spike high in the olfactory nerve.
Damp like laundry.
Freshly washed paradise.
I flinched.
When had the Pierre de Ronsard begun to smell like that?
Like heaven.
A new start.
Something awakening.
I looked at her.
They call it the Eden rose.
She smiled.
Can you imagine?
How they carpeted the garden, climbing the walls, filling the morning air
With their perfume?
What glory, there!
She sighed.
I closed my eyes.
I could
I could imagine.
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Monica lives and writes in Florence, Italy. Her international spirit travels with an American passport but she's lost count of all the relevant metrics. She currently moonlights as a legal researcher for a local law firm. Her off-hours are filled with parenting, managing various people and projects, and literature. Read more about Monica at sharpmonica.com.
Social media handles:
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Twitter: @finnch
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