A Perfumed Poem

You cannot
reap Sampaguitas
from my poetry
for this poem
doesn't deserve
the ornate fragrance
of those Jasmines.

You are
a papery flower
that bloomed
last January,
a whimsical laughter
on a Saturday morning,
an untuned guitar
amidst coffee-scented dreams,
a painter
dreaming of Anthurium.

You are
a Honeysuckle
facing the
tranquil walls-
teaching them
how to paint
abstract flowers
and forgotten fireflies.

And I am
a field of Violets,
a broken compass,
a palette,
a kite
in a yellow ochre sky.

I am a writer
who keeps
on writing
to be worthy of
Sampaguita-fragrant dreams,
a perfumed poem
that finds Jasmines
underneath words
that weave
your reveries.

Maybe without
Sampaguitas,
no one
will find
this poem perfumed...

But all
I need is
to see you
smile.