Fermented fruits and fallen leaves fester out in mulch and murk, buried in musk of morning dew, awaiting worms to do their work: to turn and toil the ground anew, munch detritus dank and deep. Though the crisp of cold will often delay the verdant milk of Spring's relief, it's never fully flushed away. The humming husks of ageing yews give beetles, ants, and moths their feed; the chars of fires shall renew. So savour every stubborn weed and drink the petrichor of earth; for this crude, tart, and ripe decay, that's wreaked upon these dreary days, belies a taste so raw and sweet: the fragrance of rebirth.
Prontobard (Nov 2022)