wick: the secret garden

This morning smelled like spring. And what does spring smell like but damp promise?

Not dampened promise, mind you.

But on a morning like this, I think of The Secret Garden and Dickon calling things wick as he showed Mary the green inside a branch in the garden.

Just thinking about that story makes me want to wear a dress with a pinafore and climb over a garden wall, but I bet the whole experience wouldn't be as charming without a Dickon of my own.

Also, there aren't really garden walls in Glen Ellyn.

I should also adapt an English accent in this scenario and sing-song, "Oh, it is wick!"

Wick.

What a word {when not being used in association with candles}. I think we should bring it back, along with mayhaps and perchance.

Wick is twigs that bend but do not break. It's rain showers when it's in the low 40s, and it's the squishing sound when you step on the grass. Wick is also the feeling of muddy water getting into your shoe.

Wick is the smell of spring, and this morning I breathed deeply, even though it was pouring. I breathed in spring and its very wickness.