Dream of Pouches

I've been waking sometimes with words in my head ready to spill on the page. Sometimes dreams are attached.  Sometimes only dreams, like this morning: I'm in a library, placing books back on the shelves. I can't find the area marked "P." When I find the area there aren't books there, just a low table with small muslin pouches tied with ribbons, like sachets of potpourri. Rows of these pouches, maybe four rows, in different colors, in some kind of order. I open each pouch one at a time, gently, certain they hold something fragile and aromatic. Then I tie each one up again and stand back. I see a bottle cap on the floor, which makes me think I haven't closed one up properly, but I can't quite figure out how it all fits together.  

In the next scene, two young women, a little zaftig and quite cheerful, are cooking a big pot of something, steaming, with vegetables. They show me by taking off the cover.  And, they add, we've used lots of that stuff--they point to the pouches in the library, which I thought had contained some sort of  magical sands one could use if at all very sparingly.  But no! They happily threw in handfuls....