Exsynesthete


Time was - the sonance
of Grandma Davis' voice
peppered mellifluent
blue-black olio sapors -

salty ebbs of insinglass
roiled across my tongue
when the inland gulls
scavenged the scree -

cold, wintergreen
nips of Gramp's chew
cat-claw whelmed
the airy ruckus.

Now - only diffuse
forms of facsimile;
mementos hawked
by vagrant aromas,
and verdure coffered
traces of clarity
before a storm.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown