Ping Among The Pines

Within the creases and gaps of once-green, now-frost-blanketed pines trots a dog, lost, lacklustered due to a theft of sense, resulting in overwhelming confusion.

Its' pitter-patter on the permafrosted planet, and esoteric echoes, forlornly frequent this formerly friendly forest.
Doggedly deploring, it wanders, and wonders why its sense of smell has suddenly been stolen.
The cold and its chilly children, sleet and snow, have cruelly covered the conifers, cleaving their connection with the canine.
No longer can its nose note that refreshing redolence, and his howls go unheard and haunt his hushed habitat.
That spicy scent was silenced and snuffed out, and sadly, can no longer be sniffed out and swim up his sinuses.
A dog deprived of its sense of smell is simply doomed to endure despondent days and a dark, distasteful demise.
Unless...
...He learns to lick his lacerations and lesions, melting merciless miseries and maladies with tepid tongue and balmy breath, freeing those fragrant pheromones from the shackles of selfish snow, who swinishly severed and swallowed such sweet savors, shared between bark and beast.
Seasons can sharply shift, yes, yet, they can also smoothly segue; snow can cease to shower and he can be soothed, and see his summer spring someday...
...So long as this winter does not wither him first.
So long as he does not fall face down and let this frigidness filibuster his feelings and freeze his harbored-human-heart, his nose will once again know the beauty only a blossoming bouquet can bring.