I’d describe it as

cold,

frosty,

fresh, 

and new,

a mildly earthy scent.

Sometimes I catch a whiff of trees,

of smoke,

the aroma of snow,

and heavy-laden branches.

And once,

in a while,

the firewood ablaze,

I smell the wind,

too.

I smell

the breeze,

which catches a winter fire,

an icy perfume,

and I smell ambrosial rain,

too:

Drifting past snow laden fields,

a roaming sadness,

as the flavor faints away

But when you ask for more,

I’d say:

it’s raw and cold,

and delicate too,

like the fractals of a forming

snowflake.

So fine,

so forlorn and wispy,

floating free

on cloudless skies,

on cotton-candy wings,

I’d make it 

my own

perfume.