Out in the field near our cabin
I see little tracks in the snow
Leading to the edge of the tree line.

We follow.  Loving the smell of pine
I run my hand through the branches
Snapping a twig to capture the scent.

When we are home, sitting by the fire,
I will say, "Here is the memory of trees
And of our trek.  Smell."

And, you will take my hand in yours,
Gently raise it to your nose; then we will love
Amidst the memory of pines.