As a man of science I should be able
To answer all queries from the young child
With real, not alternative, facts, no fables
Entertaining truth, not imagination wild
How does the brain control my toe
How does a daffodil know when to bloom
Why does a volcano start to flow
Why do I blush when a girl enters the room
But sometimes there are no solutions
When the inquirer has wicked intentions
Unknown unknowns, unknowable illusions
No choice but to exercise imaginations
So, what does the sun smell like?
To the French sommelier, the evening sun
Low in the sky, a dark purplish red
Just like the healing color of the wine
The smell of the finest burgundy
To the Napa valley enthusiast
Flavors of citrus and peach
Yield the golden yellow hue of the morning sun, and
The smell of the oaked chardonnay
In the Franschhoek valley
The moon glides over the crest
Pale, blanched, partnering the sun
Working together, the smell of a smooth white
In the land of the midnight sun
Far north of here, the Inuit
See the heavenly silvery shape
And smell the seal frying on the open fire
In the Sandy Desert of Rajasthan
The sun burns a fierce white at midday
The Rajputs and Brahmans bury their heads in
The curried smell of laal mass
Scientists are not normally credited with imagination
Yet just see what can be done
With the flavors of food and drink
That can brighten even the sun-drenched sky
Franschhoek, South Africa, April 2017
