The Living Plinth

The scent of the damp desert soil
After rare enough rain or snow—
We can’t tell you. We can’t tell you.

There’s no phrase to conjure that scent,
No analogous memory—
Scent like an empty foundation,

Pedestal for a monument
To the word who hasn’t yet lived,
Whose statue has not yet been planned.

Stand in the white as the snow falls
On a winter day warm enough
That the soil breathes under its blank.

Can you help us? Can you tell us
How we can say how rich this is,
The breath sighing under the blank?