Let Me Die Still A Child Poem by Patti Masterman

Sometimes I wonder where it is I mostly live, and what is my real home,
When I am not writing endless plaintive verses,
Looking for the meaning which hides behind the surface mirage-
Forgetting not to worship the clues I find randomly scattered,
Making mountains out of small things and missing the giant obvious signs
Too concrete, cause and effect terrarium where my body seems to live.
Do I live in the cannisters; the flour, the sugar, the pans,
The baking staples and their fragrant results?
Do I live in the rows of orderly books, the quiet stacks of papers-
Smells of new glue and old signatures:
Never a murmur comes from their wooden compartments.
Do I live in the shiny bottles of perfumes, flavorings, spices,
Crammed in every available spot till they must come rolling out of every open closet door?
Somehow the delicate nature of scent rules, has always enlarged my world.
I think I will always live on the inside, never quite connected to the outside,
Swimming alone in clouds of exotic, dark-matter incense vapors.
Bread dough rises like a tower there, without yeast
Books are written and read with nary the turn of a single page or sheet of paper sullied
Scents are exquisitely more delicate and ethereal there
Than any imagination can craft here:
Even better, when they bind together and fly me, magic carpet style
To far away realms: the wide, unclaimed vistas just waiting to be found.
In that other place, thoughts create movement just like muscles do down here.
And my nose is part dog and part jackal descended, a greedy scent hound-
It capers thru the unseen dimensions, sniffing out things not its business;
Forever it's craving the fine waters and airs reserved for the aristocratic blood.
God of childhood's kingdom: do not let me grow old and jaded-
Let me die first, surrounded by the rare fragrance of old books,
Pastries and mysteries. Life is too full of rich flavors.
Keep filling up my portion till I drown from wonder just contemplating it.