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.
Copyright ©
Andrew Fairchild
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