
Native witchhazel, the demure forerunner of the showy hybridized models in the market, invokes an olfactory memory of walks in the woods with my father when I was a little child: a broken twig, a pleasantly fresh, just-shy-of-linament aroma.
In a damp expanse of grasses, still not sprung, the marsh marigolds shine out, waxy, reflective of the late afternoon sun.


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