Finally, it’s spring. The snow has become granular, coarse. It is waiting, I suppose, there in the middle of lawns, on the edges of roads, under dirt camouflage, to be overpowered by the tilt of the earth, the strengthening sun.
Here, as the waters settle and ground thaws, it will throw off the scent of its history, of tank-like glaciers on their slow paths of destruction, of rocks flung and trees crushed, of fires and of tornadoes making disappear what seemed so deeply rooted.
But the fragrance from this ruination is a ripe and beautiful benediction, sweeter than gardenia, thicker than lily, more redolent than pine.