We do alright here,
Sitting as we do
Between sea and mountain.
Winter, at its worst,
Marcescent.
The water fine bourbon.
The streets platinum,
Polished so not slick.
It rains white wine.
The air smells of gardenia
And triggers intense nostalgia
As you concoct
Beautiful futures.
The hounds sing
Opera.
jbrettdavis 
My sentiments exactly, although I could never articulate them as nicely as you have! Fragrances around here do bring on powerful nostalgia (although in my case I don’t understand why or for what, having come from Minnesota). “Marcescent”, what a great word! Had to google it, it very precisely explains that strange state of some of the trees here in winter in limbo, or pergutory. Wonder how it entered your vocabulary. Thanks for posting!
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