One Defines Oneself

We are changes in changes,
Or, at least, we were
The smells of high, mountain pines,

Of black mud on either side
Of the shrinking stream
That wound its way down
Through the end of the summer,

Of the duff of dry needles
And dust—like all smells
For humans, stronger than us.

We can’t conjure them,
Once they’re gone, but once they’re back,
They can jar our memories
And conjure us. Changed. We were.