Secretions

olfactory memory, they say,
offers sweetness to the aged,
each lump of butter remembered
at the core, the brain stem pulsating
some kinetic energy at last,
some profound truth absorbed
after all from pancake houses visited
after long drives past Bethany, Missouri,
back to the farm where purple thistles
rock gently spilling seeds into culverts.

summer will arrive, they say, and moons
will rotate overhead, moisture abounding
to soften dead follicles, rejuvenating
those mental powers lost over ham
and eggs served up each day with bitter
losses, the wind no longer a friend
but a driving force of decay, spreading
ashes beneath the droppings of Canadian
geese flying their long V in blue skies
then swerving to land on the pond.