You’ve spoiled me,
but not in any way that matters.
not in any way I’m used to.

not like curdled milk,
nor the strawberry jam I let grow white and fuzzy,
nor the mushrooms I let grow putrid in the vegetable drawer.

no, I’m accustomed to that—
the saccharine smell of decay,
the should-have-beens of unconsumed organisms.

but you tell me I smell like honey,
and wood smoke from a fire rekindled at dawn.
(you smell like long days and the dust of the earth;
I crave it when I finally give in to rest.)

you tell me you run your fingers over the braid I’ve woven into your hair,
and find my presence lingering there.
(your wondrous and work-worn hands catch on the strands;
I know that my heart is right where I left it.)

You’ve spoiled me—
Wiped away my flourishing colonies of spores to reveal something soft and youthful;
Seen my refuse and been struck only by the sweet smell of the life-to-be,
the promise of fertile soils.