Poetic Interlude XIX

On my windowsill sits a jar
Filled with oil, herbs, and essences
Of things I've tried to say and yet cannot.
If, in creating healing salve
I add in binding with the structure,
If I give you one tiny aromatic cup
And if you use it when you're wounded,
When you're tired, bitten, sore, discouraged,
If you smell the mixture when you're lonely
And watch its greenness fade the blueness of your hurt,
Will that suffice?
Will your skin feel the words I cannot give your ears?