by Daniel Hess
What were the senses sans smell?
Transient terrors they.
Taste gone, sight short, feeling fell,
hearing hard, for who could weigh
the coffee pot’s final, rich gasp
brimming afresh and dark
without the fragrant steam, or clasp
the hand-curved ceramic, or mark
the delight dripping in the rain
without the whiff of earth
releasing its pleasure and pain
and bracing for its birth?
While often failing to find the right balance in time management and priorities, Daniel Hess delights in finding poetry in unexpected places and the joy of bringing it to life with words.