Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

It moves in secrets, A spy on a mission, Deciphering the rawness in the wound. Sometimes it brings a smell, The sea with its salt and barbeques, Cold clouds and warm rain. Sometimes, a fragrance from long ago, Scent of a cologne, an old lover, Or lime musk soap, childhood baths, Sleepy blankets hiding in the morning. Sometimes, a haunting sadness That calls out from nothingness, An aching desire to go back, Into the realms of a past forgotten But today it's none of that. It's flight, the clawing at obstacles, Struggling outwards and soaring high. Then seeing yourself, There down on the ground, on a bench, In a garden, eyes closed Trying to be one with the wind, Succeeding at last.