Traces.
Old roses, pouring out a Springtime show, a last reaching for the sun, blooming, rich scented musk, and we inhale delight.
Tomorrow we will be satisfied with the damp, spent fragrance of fading roses, and gather spent and fallen petals to dry and save for dark places that welcome old scent.
Their baby cousins left outdoors will be dead, frozen, never to be seen in bloom.
We will remark how the last bouquet is always the rarest, while dark winds blow and traces of sleet fall.
We will inhale traces of delight from the remaining blooms, longing to imprint their gifts in our memories.
And failing.
And we will satisfy ourselves with the spices of oaken smoke and old recipes.
And dried, faded petals scattered in the dark places.
And we will put them away again when the first traces of warm earth rise up like ghosts of summers past, to take us back to the roses.
Home's Cool! 