Tilleul

[nineweaving]

So there’s this hale old linden on the corner, yellow-pale with bloom, starred over with incipient tisane.  It wafts the most entrancing scent:  greener than roses, honeyed, yet uncloying.  “Oboe ... not clarinet,” as Sylvia Townsend Warner wrote of bean flowers.  It transfuses; yet eludes.  If you bury your nose in blossom, there is only an undernote.

I’d like to meet its dryad.

Nine