Grass

  • Bub

    A dog’s bright, beaming memories of playing in the sun, rolling in the grass, and begging for table scraps.

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  • Coraline Jones

    “What should I do?” asked Coraline.

    “Read a book,” said her mother. “Watch a video. Play with your toys. Go and pester Miss Spink or Miss Forcible, or the crazy old man upstairs.”

    “No,” said Coraline. “I don’t want to do those things. I want to explore.”

    Dry grass, clean skin, and a little bit of mossy berry.

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  • Druid

    A woolen robe infused with the scent of a vast, primordial forest: ancient trees, fertile soil, wild herbs, spring grasses, and burgundy pitch incense.

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  • Great Basin Woodnymph

    A child of summer, the woodnymph sips moisture from the sand and flits through grasses and wild buckwheat.

    Hay and grasses with two eyespots of cacao and tonka.

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  • Sinkhole

    We have the best sinkholes. Terrific sinkholes. Our sinkholes are tremendous. YUUUGE. No administration has ever had a sinkhole like this, believe me. Obama didn’t have sinkholes. Sad!

    The scent of a swamp self-draining: globs of wet earth, crushed grass, and untended dandelions sliding into a morass of moss-crusted opoponax, labdanum, and tar.

    Proceeds from the sale of this scent benefit the American Civil Liberties Union.

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  • Smug Yale Alchemy Lab

    Ivy League? Pshhh, the only book learnin’ you really need is the kind that comes bedecked with mythical beasts — preferably those armed with tusks, swiveling horns, and a totally unearned sense of importance.

    Vanilla bean and wild grasses.

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  • Squirting Cucumber

    Yikes! A spurt of wet, grassy greenness.

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  • Take a Knee

    This weekend, Trump attacked the US Constitution’s guarantee of freedom of speech and took aim at the football players who are peacefully protesting police brutality, inequality, bigotry, and racism. He’s calling for a boycott of an entire sports league to force the firing of African American athletes and their allies for speaking out about racial injustice.

    Taking a knee…this isn’t a protest of America itself, its flag, or anything that this country stands for. It isn’t disrespectful of the US military. On the contrary, it is the acknowledgement that we as a country can do better, that we must do better, and that we must renew our commitment to fight for equality and justice for all. By speaking out against institutional racism and racial injustice, against violence and bigotry, whether it be by taking a knee, locking arms with teammates, refusing to walk out onto a playing field until after the National Anthem has been sung, editorializing on social media, or making protest perfumes, we are honoring our communities, our neighbors, and our nation by attempting to amplify the voices of those who are often not empowered to speak.

    It is possible and necessary to love this country and also expect—and demand—that we do better…that we recognize injustice when we see it, and do what we can to fight it. That’s real patriotism.

    “We have fought for America with all of her imperfections. Not so much for what she is but for what we know she can be.” – Mary Bethune

    This is the scent of apple pie, as American as it gets, and a smudged grass stain. The proceeds from every single sale of this scent will benefit the NAACP.

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  • Tennis Match

    Crushed grass, dandelion sap, green oakmoss, lettuce leaf, and white pepper.

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  • The Apothecary

    Tea leaf with three mosses, green grass, a medley of herbal notes, and a drop of ginger and fig.

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  • The Black Tower

    Say that the men of the old black tower,
    Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
    Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
    Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
    That all are oath-bound men:
    Those banners come not in.

    There in the tomb stand the dead upright,
    But winds come up from the shore:
    They shake when the winds roar,
    Old bones upon the mountain shake.

    Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
    Or whisper that a man’s a fool
    Who, when his own right king’s forgotten,
    Cares what king sets up his rule.
    If he died long ago
    Why do you dread us so?

    There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
    But wind comes up from the shore:
    They shake when the winds roar,
    Old bones upon the mountain shake.

    The tower’s old cook that must climb and clamber
    Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
    When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
    Swears that he hears the king’s great horn.
    But he’s a lying hound:
    Stand we on guard oath-bound!

    There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,
    But wind comes up from the shore:
    They shake when the winds roar,
    Old bones upon the mountain shake.

    A sepulchral, desolate scent. Long-dead soldiers, oath-bound; the perfume of their armor, the chill wind that surges through their tower, white bone and blackened steel: white sandalwood, ambergris, wet ozone, galbanum and leather with ebony, teak, burnt grasses, English ivy and a hint of red wine.

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  • The Fool’s Dog

    Sometimes playfully walking with the Fool, sometimes tugging on his stockings, sometimes attacking in a pack, sometimes tearing the ass out of his pants, sometimes chomping him right on the nuts: feral and tame, guardian and hunter, loyalty and opposition. Sometimes guiding the Fool off the cliff and other times warning him of dangers ahead.

    A warm canine musk, trampled grass, a gleam of ivory-white fang, cardamom pod, and crushed yew.

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  • The Hare

    In the black furrow of a field
    I saw an old witch-hare this night;
    And she cocked her lissome ear,
    And she eyed the moon so bright,
    And she nibbled o’ the green;
    And I whispered ‘Whsst! witch-hare,’
    Away like a ghostie o’er the field
    She fled, and left the moonlight there.

    A leaper between worlds, the tiny trickster; she soars through liminal spaces, dancing in the strange shadows of dawn and twilight.

    Warm fur and mandrake root, blue sage and tall grasses, honeysuckle-tinged moonlight, carrot seed, comfrey, and dandelion.

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  • The Lilac Wood

    It was always spring in her forest, because she lived there, and she wandered all day among the great beech trees, keeping watch over the animals that lived in the ground and under bushes, in nests and caves, earths and treetops. Generation after generation, wolves and rabbits alike, they hunted and loved and had children and died, and as the unicorn did none of these things, she never grew tired of watching them.

    Ageless trees, everblooming flowers, brilliant grass, and soft shadows.

    Out of Stock
  • The Potter’s Field

    Silas walked across the path without disturbing a fallen leaf, and sat down on the bench, beside Bod. “There are those,” he said, in his silken voice, “who believe that all land is sacred. That it is sacred before we come to it, and sacred after. But here, in your land, they blessed the churches and the ground they set aside to bury people in, to make it holy. But they left land unconsecrated beside the sacred ground, potter’s fields to bury the criminals and the suicides or those who were not of the faith.”

    “So the people buried in the ground on the other side of the fence are bad people?”

    Silas raised one perfect eyebrow. “Mm? Oh, not at all. Let’s see, it’s been a while since I’ve been down that way. But I don’t remember anyone particularly evil. Remember, in days gone by you could be hanged for stealing a shilling. And there are always people who find their lives have become so unsupportable they believe the best thing they could do would be to hasten their transition to another plane of existence.”

    Rich loam, fragrant grasses, murky vetiver, wild herbs, and dry cedar bark.

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