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If the scent of fig and hyacinth and fallen olive
leaves stays pinned
to earth, yet we, once crushed, ascend–
creatures, with conscience, ready to believe
and rise–we may find in our spirited climb,
brushed by angels’ wings,
chafed by the rougher deeds
of our lives, that we too are pungent perfume
distilled by light, drawn into the olfactory
of God; together
we are bowls of withered
leaves and petals, bits of bark, a potpourri:
the universe breathes us in like attar
and breathes us out again as stars.
Volume 27, no. 2, 1999