PETRICHOR

PETRICHOR* With a gentle gliding, The wings of her purple poncho flapping, My delicate little lady rides Her once-in-a-while fine mood. My purple poncho flaps, too, Like a huge and unrestrained Butterfly-of-a-covering, And she is delighted Because we MATCH. We always walk together Everywhere we go (Which is all the places, Magical or Mundane, That we must visit In order to match steps With the witless illness That bothers her Every day.) And she is de Her little, silvery laughAnd clap her hands and twirl Echoes down the street And enchants the tree spirits shehe really That lean down and listeniss To catch her humor (It was thrown like a handful of flowers -- She loved the lilacs. I alwayp wet seed-cliicked them For her. Before the rain, the lilac-scent saturates The welcoming breeze, and during and after, There is always the Petrichor, The smell of the rain and after the rain...) This is the good smell of hope renewed, Of a day without racing thoughts Or suicidal depression, Of a day when she can laugh And clap her hands And twirl in the rain Like the Ice Skater she really is... How I love her! I love her so much that I do not mind When the rain brings down The seed-clusters like wet lint Onto my upstretched face. There is no other time than this; No time of sorrow, no time of worry, But only this time When I Can still stop, enchanted, Watching her dance And the Real Stars are the leaves on the sidewalk And the Petrichor Soothes and invigorates her And she is like a happy child, again, Unbroken, And filled with dreams.