The door is opened By temptations of clover, Lavender, and roses The swirl of air flinging Escaping smells adrift.
A black piano bench Worn so smooth I see The wood grained from use Incessantly yawns Giving up its treasures Sheet music, lyrical Compositions, and not many blank pages.
Deeper I tread into this world Of music and harmony Past the tightly strung bow Leaning against the antigue stand And the old books well read Until my gaze is returned By three lonely bottles Full, in their places unheeded Escape impossible.
And then I think, Did the air fling their scent Or did they fling the air?