The pine wood is…
Covered with odoriferous needles, with vegetable forkings, auditorium of myriads of insects, oh, temple of a transience (transience of branches and of skins) whose conservatory-auditorium-props of myriads of insects are sustained by a wood of totally bowed senile masts, lichenous as old Creoles…
Slow factory of timber, of masts, of poles, of centre-props, of beams.
Wood without leaves, odoriferous as a redhead’s comb.
Francis Ponge, ‘The Pinewood Notebook’, 1940.

The aroma of the whole comes across in certain works of painting. A weak, filtered light (impressionist), incapable of illumining the oil-smeared pines.
In number 4, a souvenir of a wood in France and Cézanne.