A metallic twang, like a note struck on a steel guitar, reveals the mineralized soil in which everything grows. Assaulted by notes of spruce, eucalyptus and dogwood, I inhale an aroma, leafy around the edges, evergreen at its core. Undertones of an old cigar box that has been left out in the rain, creep past my heightened olfaction. And yet—the lingering impression on the tongue is angular, optimistic as a freshly laundered white shirt hung to dry in the chinook winds that blow where the Canadian Prairies and the Great Plains meet. At the edges, I can taste winter, and I’m reminded how much I miss this Alberta air.
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yomimiyo 
A lovely piece of writing by that beautiful woman that I’m lucky enough to be able to call my wife.
Thankfully no one can see me blushing…gracias mi amor
Allison. Have you read Diane Ackerman’s “A Natural History of the Senses”? If you haven’t I think you would really enjoy it–based on your beautiful perceptions and writing.
Thank you so much for the recommendation! I just checked it out on Goodreads and it looks like a book I’d absolutely enjoy…muchas gracias! And for your kind words😊
Wonderful pieces, Alison! Thanks to dear friends who moved to Mérida, Eck Follen and Charles Swanson, I have just learned of your website and writings . . .
Well thank you for reading, Meredith…and your kind words. I am happy to call Eck and Charlie my friends!
Just found this in my email. It is a poem. Very nice. You would not like the Alberta air today. 😦