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Morgan Michaels


From Barbara


She didn't brag, but Barbara had enormous faith in her nose. In ways that were never boastful, she let it be known that her sniffer was extraordinary. Walking into a room she could smell roses- then startled her friends by naming the kind. She avoided Indian restaurants because of the phantasmagoria of odors they bred- a pity, she said, because she loved the food. From inhaling so many conflicting and complimentary odors came a prompt headache, followed by a night of rowdy dreams. Just by sniffing the air she could predict fair and foul weather better than the weatherman. But perhaps most remarkably, her sniffer could distinguish edible mushrooms from their deadly cousins, the toadstools, with their powerful and usually fatal aflotoxins. After the rain (forecast correctly by her nose) she led her children down the little dirt lane and into the woods across the road that skirted the lake. There, with their help, she found the newly sprung funghi in bright circles of sunshine between the trees. (Her eyes were not as good as her nose; her eyeglasses held lenses whose thickness was diminished by their frames.) With their help...

Submitted: Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Edited: Thursday, March 20, 2014

Topic of this poem: love


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