The Master of Perfumes can’t be sighted,

But if you head in that direction, neither east nor west,

Down that bright hall,

And turn when your olfactory sense

Alerts you to fragrances like the smell of skies,

Scents sweeter than a mountain stream,

Endearing as your own child’s hair,

Follow those aromas,

Becoming drunk on them,

Scoop them up in your hands and place

A drop behind each ear,

But never waver from that way,

Heart leaping higher with each turn,

Rejoicing in the Master of Perfumes.

~Wanda Waterman 2020