Intimation

by Sharon Scholl

The scent of earth pours
through a morning window.
In my half conscious sleep I turn
to inhale it into every pore.

Birth, decomposition blend
into a loamy odor that contains
all the genera that walk or crawl,
all things green, one celled motes.

I’m suffused in the embrace
of smells that only time creates,
a long history of being and non-being
sensed only by the nose.

This is unexpected comfort drifting
across my pillow, confirming intuition
that I am creaturely, my body one small
molecule of this heady perfume.