To Martha and Her Fragrant Home
Spikenard lingers.
While loaves and garlic and fruits,
her perfumes,
Float, too,
Filling to walls, drawing souls
For nourishment
For warmth
For flavor
For artistry for inspiration
For a moment shared with Him
As she kneads and presses and peels
Keeping an eye for their want she
Hovers, too,
Filling the jug, the heart
With nourishment
With warmth
With flavor
With gleaming, soothing, healing imaginings
From the One
Who sees
Who eats
Who smells
The rich bouquet of her eager unstillness
Infused with the sister’s eager stillness.
Distilled oil
Lingers still.
While loaves and garlic and fruits,
her perfumes,
Float, too,
Filling to walls, drawing souls
For nourishment
For warmth
For flavor
For artistry for inspiration
For a moment shared with Him
As she kneads and presses and peels
Keeping an eye for their want she
Hovers, too,
Filling the jug, the heart
With nourishment
With warmth
With flavor
With gleaming, soothing, healing imaginings
From the One
Who sees
Who eats
Who smells
The rich bouquet of her eager unstillness
Infused with the sister’s eager stillness.
Distilled oil
Lingers still.
Life has followed a colorful trajectory for Melissa who, with her husband and four children, has lived in Vienna, Hong Kong, an island in Norway, and now in the heart of Paris. This journey (wifehood, motherhood, nomadhood) has provided experiences that she has consistently tried to translate into the written word. Like half of Paris, she has written a book. Like the other half of Paris, she walks her dog. Unlike anyone else in Paris, she actually scoops the poop.
