Reflections of Memory

Trees are mirrored in a Feburary sunset. Their branches bare without even the tinest of buds, their roots remain still submerged beneath the glassy lake, and yet there are already small changes taking place. With each passing day an ever-increasing photoperiod signals them to begin growing afresh. There is too, something on the air, something akin to the slightest wisp of bouquet from a field full of wildflowers. It could easily be imagined, or perhaps just a memory of seasons passed, but it is not. Although quite nearly imperceptible, I can sense the slightest fragrance is in my nostrils---and it is real. It is the scent of the awakening Earth.