Crumbling Branches

Today there was a branch 

that came crashing down beside me,

so close, that I felt the frantic splashes 

it made as it fell through puddles of air, 

again and again, 

so close, that I felt its scream 

vibrate onto me

When it finally reached 

the spot beside my feet, it 

left behind a burning smell

a maple-y smell

a squirrel dropping and blooming flowers smell

along with a scent that 

I almost remembered,

and the scent tried 

to seep into the pores of my mind, 

banging on a metal door whose handle is jammed, 

as I urgently pushed my nose against the other side 

of the door and thought, maybe, 

maybe, it’s the smell of that leftover crumb in my pocket,

the tiny, stale, crumb lodged in the very back corner of my pocket

a crumb of what I don’t know,

because I’ve tried to pick it out to see, pinch it

in between my stretching fingernail edges, but instead

every time I remember it’s there,

I only manage to run a few lines of my fingertip over its uneven surface, guess

if it’s a dark brown or some food coloring flavor green, guess

what taste it might have been

And you know, I still dream

of meticulously pinching my nails into some new formation,

triumphantly bringing to light the tiny crumb,

laughing the “ah ha!” of knowing 

it was a sunflower seed that melts only when chewed

dream of the jammed metal door getting a good, opening kick, 

and so then I’d know what, exactly, the crumb is

but I suppose I’ll just relish 

the few lingering seconds 

of a billions scents breeze

tiny crumbs lodged inside

a tree branch slowly falling

and maybe, just maybe,

as I walk through the woods,

the scent will come back to visit me

Sophie Staii