Have you ever bought a perfume labeled
“Monday in the Fields” ?

It has a faint fragrance where
milkweeds and lilies linger in the air,
as if a gust of wind from the clouds
drifted it towards you.

Slowly but surely the aroma gets stronger,
as if the milkweeds and lilies are gathering
to form a bouquet made especially for you.
You reach out your hand to accept them
but an unexpected musk flows past you.

Suddenly a smell as salty and natural
as the deepest parts of the ocean appears.
An ocean filled with oxidized metal
and fields of brackish seaweed.
It is a distinct and intoxicating smell,
a smell that can only be found in one place.

That place is from the beads of sweat
that drip off the back and forehead of the laborer.
The very laborer who picked the milkweeds and lilies.
The very laborer who works under a scorching sun.
The very laborer who skips meals to work overtime.
The very laborer who helped arrange this scent.

Not every scent is placed in a perfume bottle.
Well...at least not the natural ones.

Gone.
It’s gone.
Lost in this Wonderland.
He tramples in a sheet of soft hail.
Chills crawl up his body like a spider up its web.
His lips form blisters and cracks.
His ears begin to burn at the touch.
His body turns bluer than an untainted ocean.

He longs to find what he lost.
The breeze hits him when he least expects it,
bitter cold punches in all directions.
The screeches of the wind grow louder.
The mist of his breath in the air fades.
All hopes of finding it are gone.

A shimmer of light grows in the distance.
His frostbitten fingers reach towards it.
The spirit of Jack Frost moons over him saying,
“My son, I have what you are looking for.”
His previously sullen face turns into a smirk.
Mr. Frost embraces him and gives him all he was searching for.
“Finally…” he says.
Warmth.