Words Don’t Run Off; We’ll Still Be Here Come Dawn

That rich, wet reek of dirt and sage
When the dry scrub’s graced with light rain—
Drag that fresh tang deep in your lungs;

Fill your chest. Grace like that can’t last.
We can, and we can share what’s lost
Or locked in the cells of a brain.

We were born to be in the air,
Like birds’ songs, brief, but there—and there—
The same—or as close as same gets—

So you could know, soon as you knew
What we meant, we meant—and we meant—
In strings of sounds, in shapes of hands.

Ink and print and all the rest just
Add more time to what we do best.
It’s too bad we can’t bring true scents

From rain on the scrub in red dust,
But we can hint at what that was,
And you can take a hint from us.