You think of jasmine trailing over a fence,
night-blooming things that make you sniff the air;
           on foggy days, a hint of salt from hidden seas.
Rain's capelet hovers just above the earth,
           enough to gently film your face as if 
with dew or tears. For want of a clear
           enough opening in the sky, a comet 
remains a green-tailed rumor. What could
           you do about the whale that washed up
one day, its hump a dark, ridged thumbprint on
           the sable beach? A humpback's song spans
seven octaves, nearly the entire range 
           of a piano—You dream of how it carries 
in the air: one bloom, one signature like prayer. 

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