The scent of memory:
Wafting throught the air was the sweet smell of balsa pine
That clean scent pricked my memory like a needle full of the past; the fountain of my youth.
Suddenly, I was in Lenox, eight years old, sitting on a bed of soft, brown, in the tall and twisted stand of pines during a calm, drizzling spring rain. The openings in the heavy canopy revealing puffs of blue; places where the sky was clearing. Youth is a champion runner; its time is less than a season should be; but a transporting scent can become a fountain of youth that will stay as long as the thoughts visit.
Playing with Geometry (again)
6 hours ago