Of odors I like best, I remember first the smell of cedar
A shingle for a house brought from its packaged bundle fresh
From deep inside where the smells had not yet seeped away
And the color and the texture and the smell still all preserving
The newest, fresh sawn state

It seemed a treasure to me then, that simple wooden shingle
Not quite one foot square, tapered from somewhat thicker to a finer edge
Not splintery as I recall, but with a soft fuzz of tiny fibers on its surface
Giving a friendly touch, like a rough velvet if that could be
But best the smell, that I’ll remember as long as life

Earthy in a way, but neither sweet nor sour
Musty, perhaps, in a subtle way, but not offensively so
I’m trying to remember more, not the smell but the words I might use
For the sense is there still, fresh and vivid in my mind
But, I fear, fading in ways I might use to describe it.

As years advanced there came new smells, from ever changing sources
Motor oil and road tar, and hot engines, spinning tires, a girl on your arm
A girl whose perfume was not what your mother wore
Though in fact the same in brand but worn on younger skin
And with now a hint of something hot and mysteriously forbidden

With age the character of that smell would change into a raw new thing
Science would call them pheromones, we had different names
But this new small came as in a dessert heat, it melted all the other senses
And differed too in subtle ways depending on the person and the mood
And came forever to be attached with a specific name or body

Those were the odors of our middle years, what memories they still bring
But trouble too, if one were to speak of them unguarded and of their source
Advancing to a certain age it is constancy that brings comfort, not variety
And one’s family has that smell of comfort, that’s all you really need or want
Except perhaps for the smell of cedar, the smell of innocence and youth