Sun-Warmed Rocks

Dried moss smells of heat—
That first heat of June—
But of hay as well,
All to be cut soon.

Can you sniff the dirt
Sunk in such small words?
It’s in your head there,
If you learned the terms,

And sat in sun hours,
Where it was you were,
And breathed in warm air—
Grass, roots, hay, moss, words.

Each life has to learn
What small words smell like.
If not these, then tar,
Ink, bread, rain, lime, pipe . . .