a saturday jog brings to mind the cliche: stop and smell . . . .
but all that smells in frozen days is dark and dirty.
the only warmth you pass comes in signature scent: au naturel.
the dog’s droppings, last night’s street sick — both lie preserved on the icy snow, fossils on display for winter’s tourists.
no flowers step up to lessen their fetid force.
you hold your breath to pass, all of nature holds its warmth.
but motives must be checked.
what is frozen soon will melt; will it be better for the ice age?
crack another cliche’s ice: dig deep to find what’s being preserved beneath,
catch the scent of what is growing, but don’t interrupt!
be ready, get set: prepare your inner hound to put nose to ground and track the scent at thaw’s starting melt.
the snow is indeed starting to melt this week! just in time for another blizzard i’m sure. while you’re pondering the wonders of old man winter – don’t forget to check out the next chapter in the collective‘s serial story. i had so much fun writing last week and am thrilled to see where our next relay-writer has taken us. check out the whole story here!