Scent of a Hyacinth 

The first whiff is a havoc:
Hit me like a wharf,
Or a rose in shell-shock.
I can’t see the heart
Leaving me in a fine carriage,
Too formal-
My throat closed on a confection
And I’m afraid to kiss.
And nothing is a keepsake but
I am the fever on the frozen lawn
Reaching to touch
I can’t remember what for grief,
Until spring
I breathe
And remember.