Scent

A whisper lingers on the breeze,
A subtle hint of rosemary,
It drifts through gardens, past the trees,
Awakening the quiet reverie.

The scent of rain on cobblestones,
Petrichor, a damp perfume,
It weaves through alleys, through the tones,
And summons thoughts of summer’s bloom.

From lavender fields to spice‑laden stalls,
Each breath a story, soft and keen,
A fragrant thread through memory’s halls—
The world’s perfume, forever seen.