a snow drift before Simpson Mountain
Last night I considered the smell of the rose
How odd our ability to remember scent
And that with an odor a memory can ensue
Our senses overwhelmed and transported
With the simple recollection of the fragrance of a sweet flower
For but an instant, I am there
Some things will never be here
My growing hope in a terra cotta planter above my kitchen sink
A climbing rose bush, modestly contained, small dark and glossy green leaves
A humble promise of what could be
We long for what we can not have
And a part of us must try
Scent
We have it not when
The air is frozen
And with it the sense of odor arrested
The light tells me I should find fragrance soft and subtle floating in the air
The warming of the world
Elsewhere perhaps
The white ground before me allows otherwise
I press my cheek on my horses back and there I finally smell
The sweet hearty lovely scent of earth
These are the simple things I look for
And long for as the seasons will change
Every season the same hunger for what is to follow
Uncertain, unknown, unfamiliar
Anticipation swelling like leaden clouds low over the white mountain tops
What else will change
Our lives now as frozen as the river
I imagine brown waters fiercely surging down the course through the thawing land
And believe we too will flow
dark trees in a light snow storm