The Scent of the Pines – Thirty Poems in Thirty Days #11

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The Scent of the Pines

Crisp
Not like potato chips
But like a bite into a fresh
Cucumber

It hangs in the air
Chilling its memory
Into your senses
On the dewy mornings

The fog is alive
It writhes and sparkles
As it catches
The rays of the sun

I drop the match
The blaze begins

I now wait in eager anticipation
To smell the newly transformed
Scent of the pines

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