The Cellar Breath

The brick held the door, just a hair ajar,

of that old brownstone, crumbling to its bones.

And then it hit me, not from very far,

the smell of earth, of damp and sleeping stones.

That cellar breath. A cool, thick, sudden draft,

carrying the scent of stored, forgotten things.

Of root vegetables, a forgotten craft,

and quiet, damp-edged, dusty murmurings.

My grandmother's house, her basement deep and cold,

where canning jars stood, lined up on the shelf.

A world contained, a story to be told,

a deeper place, just waiting for myself.

It pulls you down, that scent, so rich and grim.

The heavy air, right to the hidden rim.