My Life In Word

The Smell of Green

Green smells like coming home.

Like fresh-cut grass
clinging to Daddy's work clothes,
to the bottom of his boots,
to the quiet pride
he carried through the back door
before he carried himself.

The whole house knew
he was home
before it heard his voice.

Green smells like that.

Green smells like collard greens
simmering slow
with hammocks
a whisper of smoke,
filling every room
until hunger itself
begins to soften.

Like cabbage
meeting in hot pan of fatback,
its sweetness unfolding
one layer at a time,
like a garden remembering
that fire, too,
can be gentle.

Green smells like mint.

Sharp enough
to wake the tongue
before it ever arrives there.

Like the first breath
after rain,
cool enough
to rinse the dust
from a tired afternoon.

Green smells like basil,
all pepper and sunshine,
its leaves bruised gently
between curious fingers,
releasing a fragrance
that feels less like an herb
and more like laughter
floating from an open kitchen window.

Green smells like tomato vines—

not the fruit,

but the leaves,

wild and bright,
their scent staining your hands
with the unmistakable perfume
of summer itself.

Green smells like cucumbers
split fresh from the garden,
like celery snapping clean,
like green apples
holding equal parts sweetness
and surprise.

Green smells like limes.

Bright.

Electric.

A small sun
hidden inside green skin,
waiting for a knife
to awaken the room.

Green smells like pine needles
warming beneath July light,
like rosemary,
like parsley,
like dill brushing against your sleeve
as you reach too quickly
through the herb bed.

Green smells like leaves
high in an oak tree,
busy making shade,
busy translating sunlight
into something birds can sing inside.

Like ferns
uncurling after rain.

Like moss
holding the memory
of every quiet morning
the forest has ever known.

Green smells like peas
still tucked inside their pods,
like green beans snapping
between careful hands,
like avocado,
like kiwi,
like fresh spinach
washed in cold water
until it gleams.

Green smells like life
before anyone gives it
another name.


green smells like growing.
green smells like breathing.
green smells like the ordinary miracles
we almost forget to notice—
the yard after it's been mowed,
the garden before dinner,
the breeze moving through leaves,
the windows opened wide,
someone calling you inside
because the meal is ready,
because the day is ending,
because love,
more often than not,
has always smelled
a little bit
like green.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Diana Parkhouse on Unsplash

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