Ode to all forgotten countries

Scent of the beach swept clean, held
ready for arrivals or departures

Scent of the coast that greeted you
with arms of pine and needles of salt

Scent of the street where bread rose
in the early dark before the sun

Scent of the shrine where the Virgin
stood serene, lit by votive candles

Scent of the box of coins and the hands
that carried her from house to house

Scent of lightning in the hills, lingering
like a halo around each brown mushroom cap

Scent of the dead that sleep in the fields
and rise to trace ground tendrils’ wandering

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