The Scent of Possibility

by John Herlihy

If possibility were a scent of what would it smell,

As sweet blossoms in spring that from an almond tree fell.

The luxury of possibility leading us forward with inviting hand,

Full of hope and promise clear to the horizon of the land.

Accompanied by exotic smells we could never fully imagine,

Tempting smells, scents we long for, never to fully fathom.

Like the aromantic splendor we savor of succulent cuisine,

Gardens in full bloom, the scent of a halcyon sky wiped clean.

The secretly chill whispering in the silence of falling snow,

The fresh scent in the air of cedar and pine as east winds blow.

Wrapped in the bud of possibility patiently waiting to be a flower,

All the seconds and minutes of the day waiting to fill the hour.

The enticing lure of a bright future behind every closed door,

The exotic scent of some future smell we have never smelt before.

No scent wiser and more compelling than the dictates of the heart,

The multitude of emotions the heart engenders raised to a fine art.

Scents of possibility found in the earth, the air, the light of the sun,

Scents that will lead us into the interior, scents comparable to none.

Scents of mysterious origin that can be as alluring as exotic sound,

The breath of scent held within sounds understood to be profound.

The forlorn cry of a peacock roaming the garden on a moonlit night,

The fresh breath in the wings of colorful birds flying in the sunlight.

The scent of stars sparkling like rock candy on a string of pearls,

Tempting scents to invade our sensibility found in unknown worlds.

I once had the rare privilege of sitting at the tomb of a saintly sage,

Suddenly I smelt an aromatic mix of lilac, jasmine, ambrosia and sage.

What limits on possibility if scent of a dead spirit makes one aware,

Miraculous aromas filling nose, mind, and heart charmingly debonaire.

The kindly saint still preserved in his tomb across a thousand years,

Reaching beyond the grave thru perfumes that brought me to tears.

The earthy smells rising in the dawn’s mist from odorous farm life,

The heavy straw air in the stables, the smell of nickering horses rife.

The sweet odor of fresh-cut grass touched by the warmth of summer,

Smokey smell of burnt leaves falling in rhythm to an ancient drummer.

The big, beautiful, cold, cruel world that we live in reeks of possibility,

As the seed brings life, the bud gives bloom, to life’s endless mystery.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Sunday 28 December 2025