I enjoy a home with smells,
real ones, 
from cooking and cleaning
and such, 
from pets and plants,
and still-wet shower towels.
No vanilla need apply.
I like a house with books,
don’t trust one without them,
perfumed magazines, too,
and moldy driveway newspapers,
not too neatly piled, please.
I crave a life with peace,
the scents of earthbound angels,
yet welcome the bumps and fevers,
the odors of sincere living.
I cherish friends who last,
the ones who know who I am.
They smell of memories and love,
of days gone and yet to come.