I step out the back door a bit before
midnight, walking into the dark
carrying the small basket of cardboard
and paper bits bound for the recycling bin
outside the gate when it hits me:

the sweet, musky scent of paperwhites
blooming their tiny heads off next to
the garage, bending gracefully as
as ballerinas in their tiny white tutus,
the unmistakable fragrance signaling
the first blooming things in the yard.

It’s mid-January, so the member of
the narcissus family is something
of a miracle to friends socked in snow
across the continent, which makes me
wish to bottle the scent and send
it to them.

I release the recyclables and, returning
through the gate, the heady fragrance
hits me again, and, as I step toward
them, inhaling deeply,

there’s my late best friend
murmuring in memory,
Smells like a French whorehouse.
And I laugh into the night, still pretty
sure she had never been near one.

But then I think of others who recoil
at this smell that reminds them of cat pee
or dirty socks. Why my nose likes indole
(the biochemical also produced by
gardenias, jasmine, tuberose and,
interestingly, Chanel No. 5),
I have no idea.

But the pollinators and I dig it,
so tomorrow when, with luck,
the sun will brighten the little
white dancers, perhaps I’ll catch
a glimpse of early bees at work.

And if not, I’ll just bend, sniff
and return their smiles, these first
signs of floral radiance to come.