Years Afterward
It is not sight or sound
That, when a heart forgets,
Most makes it to remember:
It’s some old poignant scent re-found—
Like breath of April violets,
Or apples of September.
It isn’t song or scene
That stirs the tears again:
It’s brush smoke from the hills at night,
Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen,
Long lost aroma of delight,
Fresh ploughed fields after rain.
Nancy Byrd Turner