Some bones and flesh remember the shifting of seasons
even if displaced into a warped distortion--
accidentally created--that hides the subtle turn.
But does the newly nascent also carry
this knowledge of the turning wheel,
nose lifting to scent the sweet and slow decay,
sensing peace in the fall of a shadow over
the bright heat of growth?
Some unknowingly search for the answer in every break of noise,
and when the breath of the Earth sweeps away the odor of the manufactured-
wanting to find what they do not know to miss.
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