Somehow, and Not Often

But this morning’s coffee reminds

me of the smell of tannic acid,

the smell that permeated

so much of my childhood,

but nowhere more than the little cottage

outback of the Dan’s place in West Helena,

under the shade of great pecans.

My father worked daylight til dark

grafting wild pecans to Stuarts and other varieties,

and often the kerosene stove

was his evening work space,

dipping ends of scion wood in paraffin wax.

His sweat, in those days,

always smelled like dried pecan leaves.

I loved that smell, mostly because

it smelled like my daddy, so this morning,

in the predawn dark of my Tallahassee living room,

I travel to the kitchen of that tiny cabin

between the Mississippi and the White Rivers,

where mama cooked tacos and Sunday roast beef

and daddy cooked the wax

and the whole cottage smelled

of pecan leaves and kerosene.