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The Little Things

When I was small my mother

had a bright white t-shirt

that you scratched and sniffed.

My hands scuffed on the soft cotton

releasing fragrance of citrus,

summer, and far-away places.

She gave it to me, and I kept it until

the aroma had worn

to a thread.

Now, I wear my t-shirts

over and over. They are plain,

they are a little faded.

So what.

Each time my little girl

brushes against the fabric

she releases scents of clear

mountain streams,

a lone sapling standing tall

in the Amazon.

or the turquoise freeze of a glacier

that will not thaw and calve this spring.

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