I’ve been finding myself seized by a sweet, powdery smell as I walk down Brooklyn streets, day or night, this week, during the summer solstice. Something like you’d expect if you crushed Sweet Tarts® with a mortar and pestle.

A linden tree, a.k.a. American basswood or “lime tree” catches the sun in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

I met a Spanish family at the restaurant where I work Greenpoint, and they asked if I knew what kind of tree it was, since it was wafting through the window. I’m known to carry a tree identification book on a hike in the woods, but I usually leave it at home here in the city, so I gave them a “Gosh, I don’t know,” and they started messing with their iPhones.

“It’s a lime tree,” they said, and I didn’t believe them: Limes are tropical fruits.

Well, in Spain they call them tilia, and, so say these strangers from Barcelona, they use the leaves to make a tea that calms the nerves. Researching further, I found that tilia are most often called linden trees in North America, although my Trees of New York Field Guide calls it an American Basswood. In the British Isles they call it a lime tree – which a European, whose smart phone’s search settings are more tuned into British English than American, would quickly discover, whereas I would just find “linden.”

I saw it as a happy accident, since it explained “Lime Tree Arbour,” a powerful Nick Cave ballad I’ve heard several thousand times, no exaggeration, since 2001 or so when I borrowed The Boatman’s Call from the Minneapolis Public Library (!). Like most of that 1997 album, it’s kind of a love song, kind of a hymn.

“Every breath that I breathe, and every place I go/There is a hand that protects me, and I do love her so.”

Now that I’ve gotten the smell in my head, I smell it everywhere, at least this week while it’s blossoming. It’s good to talk to strangers, especially ones from far away, and to make time for trees and other plants.

Thank you, Tilia americana, for all the beauty you’ve created out of dirt and sunshine this week.