This can’t all be
Salts from a
Pretzel
I rub on my sleeve
From floor
To shelves
Behind a door
Ourselves
I forget to grieve
In a spell
An aroma
The hidden I see
This Can’t All Be
Published
This can’t all be
Salts from a
Pretzel
I rub on my sleeve
From floor
To shelves
Behind a door
Ourselves
I forget to grieve
In a spell
An aroma
The hidden I see
T. M. Shorewick 