The rich scent of woodsmoke
lies thick in the air.
The leaves have all fallen
and the branches are bare.
Warm sunlight – a memory
like the scent of a rose.
A new scent has replaced it
of the first winter snows.
Jack Frost dusts the pavement
with a powder-like shell,
that crunches ‘neath my boots
like a seasonal knell.
Pine logs in the fireplace,
warm socks on my feet.
The tap, tappity, tap
on the window, of sleet.
Warm sunlight – a memory
like the scent of a rose.
A new scent has replaced it
of the first winter snows.
As Oak cedes to Holly
wrapped up warm, I watch the snow
and, like the bulbs, I bide my time
until my turn to grow.
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