It's supposed to snow all day, but it doesn't. In the woods, I use the snow shoes and appreciate trees, trees, trees: evergreen needles, spikes in old snow. A pretty little flake of bark. Pine branch and beech leaf. A conifer cone fallen off of its branch. Passing through some fallen limbs across the trail, limbs that have been cut by a saw so hikers can pass, (Trustees of Reservations take good care of Rocky Narrows), I smell the sweet fragrance of fresh cut lumber, stop for a moment, smell the delicious sappy scent. Takes me out of the woods, takes me to childhood, my summer yard, the fresh cement foundation poured for an addition of a master bedroom on the end of our small ranch house, my uncle, Donn, a carpenter of sorts, my parents hired him to build the addition and a garage, and here's the lumber, stacked in the yard, his tools, buzz of his saw, our thrill, witnessing our tiny house bloom and stretch over what is only a piece of grassy yard that will be transformed everlastingly, a whole suite of rooms over a new basement, dank and musty where we like to sneak and rummage through the assorted junk my father stores there, and above is where my mother keeps her tidy cheerfulness and sews and sews, and secrets herself sometimes and sleeps until her very old age after my father moves to his own bedroom, the old master, down the hall. Trees. Trees, please.

All text and photos copyright Kelly DuMar 2018