Houses hold signature odors, combined
scents of what's inside— antique furniture
with their funk and fust of wood rot, old glue
of wallpaper, and abandoned mice nests.
Sound Beach bungalow, beloved summers
spent alone with mother, barefoot beach walks
where wet sand and salt water merge to lay
down memories of fishing, clamming. They stick
for good. In any rural country home,
those times return. Raw clams for breakfast,
evening walks with grape vine fragrance, the scythe's
release of sweetness from wild spring onions
clustered in the weeds. All your life you've been
searching for the way back to cricket din.

[part of a sequence of 24 sonnets]