On the eighth day, a starving poet awakened to find his poems had turned into fresh, warm loaves of bread. Delighted by his change in fortune, he placed one of the loaves in the middle of his work table and cut into it with a knife. But the bread did not smell like bread. It smelled like a eucalyptus tree after a fall rain. And so he tried a different loaf, from which there now arose the scent of leather and cigar smoke — exactly the same smell that used to greet him long ago when he’d visit the shoe repair shop in his old hometown. The next loaf he tried, bore the maddening scent of soft skin just behind a young woman’s ear. The poet put down his knife. Somewhere, in a place that was strange and beyond hunger, he picked up his pen.
Songs and Letters, February 19, 2008
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Categories: Songs and Letters