Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Great Regulars: Our sense of smell is the one sense

most likely to transport us through time. A sniff of fried fish on a breeze and I can wind up in my grandmother's kitchen sixty years ago, getting ready to eat bluegills. Michael Walsh, a Minnesotan, builds this fine poem about his parents around the odor of cattle that they carry with them, even into this moment.

Barn Clothes

from Ted Kooser: American Life in Poetry: Column 399


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