Here’s a poem of mine which contains that word:
After fifty years, how has it changed?
Is it melancholy, redolent of spring,
are leaves falling from it
are the notes
I love the sound of answers in the grass.
Is there a storage poem in me?
Another snow poem,
a toenail poem,
dirty sink poem,
Great Dane puppies
sleeping in a cluster?
Puppies recognize the fragrance of their mother
on each others’ tongues
when they play.