Petrichor
The long drought’s dust daughters
lie writhing upon arid soil,
a scorching bed;
my tongue is heavy in my mouth
parched, longing for moisture;
my skin dry.
Dark clouds rise
along the whispering horizon
where storm breezes waken, bend and stir;
weary souls rush outdoors to wait,
eager for first drops.
The rain mantle thickens overhead;
the dust daughters rise and dance
to the drumbeat of the wind.
Ichor flows, dripping through cloud pores,
the scent penetrates, fresh and clean,
the odor of earth and rock permeates the air
tantalizing dry nostrils.
Faces turn upward
and drink in the fragrance of long awaited rain.
My feet follow my heart in happy rhythms,
a tattoo of joy written in fresh mud,
the lovely offspring of dust daughters and the deluge.
Copyright, August 11, 2016
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