The Scent Of A Vow

Spring is cemented in the park. Leaves no longer a tentative chartreuse in fear of another frost, but a full spectrum of verde. A crazy perfume of honeysuckle, tea olive, confederate jasmine hangs throughout, even when the flowers themselves are distant. I inhaled that concoction 37 years ago on a Charleston cobblestone street and declared, “I am never leaving this place.” On cursed occasions I regret that vow, but today is not one of them.

One Comment Add yours

  1. Very nicely said, MG.


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