By Donald Kentop

Before Damascus, I planted cedars here.
They grew, and when a man could no longer
wrap his arms around them, I cut them down
for lumber. Cedar doesn’t last as long
as people think. Even the stumps are gone,
rotted long ago, but when I close
my eyes, I still recall the scent of cedar.

My family numbered in the thousands once.
We were like a nation. But who can remember
their names and faces? Frankly, when they died
I did not grieve. But the aromatic scent
of cedar, ah, that’s a different story,
as fresh like yesterday. Such memories
they say are etched deep inside the brain.

.
Also by Donald Kentop:
Antoinette Bourignan, 1616-1680
Shiva
The Parade

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