on the path \ pine-scented air
The air smells different outside.
Pine. Damp earth.
Something clean and sharp.
Your breath clouds.
Leaves shift underfoot.
Morning dew.
Midday sun.
Evening dusk.
Falling light.
Rain.
Grey drizzle.
First snow.
On repeat.
The dog pulls ahead.
The toddler stops for stones.
And again.
You move.
A familiar rhythm.
Along familiar paths.
Pine needles underfoot release their scent.
The forest breathes around you.
Cold air carries something ancient. Something familiar.
Somewhere along the way, thoughts loosen.
Birdsound filters through.
Light catches on wet bark.
Cold settles on your face.
The path doesn't ask for anything.
It just holds you while you go.
And every time, without trying,
you come back a little softer
than you left.
listen: to the playlist that accompanies this memory
