Fragrances are daughters of the wind roaming through time, sowing themselves inside a memory blooming like dandelions in days that have no special moments, but fleet inaudibly to suddenly sprout with the past’s aroma reminders of nothingness, carelessness and afternoon’s breath bread with salt and olive oil pretentious reading that eavesdrops on radio static; not noticing that freedom has a face I have seen it sigh breathing out the dust of hopeful lives that settle on its bosom forgetful ignorant unaware. the ground remains open for the living, the dead and the observant. We all dig it.
About the Poet
Aida Bode is an Albanian poet and writer, whose works have been published in a variety of online and print English and Albanian publications. She’s authored/translated a novel, two poetry volumes, and a quotes collection. Aida holds a MA in English and Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Aida is a Pushcart Nominee.