Redolence

As a writer, I’ve used the term “redolent” innumerable times and yet, until recently, I don’t think I’ve ever really experienced the word in a physical sense, and therefore never really understood its true impact.

But for this last week, on my walk between assignments the air has been redolent with wild rose, honeysuckle, blackberry and now silver lace vine perfumes, mixed with a strong backbeat of humid greenery in its first full flush of new growth.

The heavy, sun-warmed air has the perfect level of buoyancy to allow the fragrance to build until it saturates the surrounding space, and the breezes are just strong enough to waft them around deliciously without diluting the scent or scattering it like leaves in a storm (or worse, teasing you with hints of scents but never delivering the real deal).

Each breeze, each corner I turn, each pocket of hot, lazy air I unexpectedly walk into envelopes me in an almost aching sweetness that leaves me with a loopy-grinned and deliriously giggly, with an irresistible urge (which I don’t bother resisting) to endlessly snorgle the greenery as I go.

It’s my last week on this route, and it could have been rainy, or chilly or just ‘meh’ – Spring’s an unpredictable hussy, after all. Instead, it’s almost like Mother Nature’s going all out to bid me farewell with everything she’s got.

Damn, I’m going to miss it.

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