There is a certain smell that clings to these old places,
it isn’t something easily defined by word or rhyme
it is something particular to that time.
It evokes those secret places
that hide within the many faces
Hanging upon the wall. It would be a crime
to forget and so we remember one more time
all the haunts, the musty wood, the shoe leather, the loss of faces.
Cedar bones pile upon the shores
their smell seeping into the memories of an
old logging town, it’s in the blood now.
The heart that lies in these old stores
Wafts up and into the lungs where it began
a journey back, back to the sweat of brow.