Petrichor

(Who knew there was a name for this?).


The first taste is with the nose
a cooling waft, not yet a breeze
confirmed by a slow licking of lips
and another long but gentle inhale
as if smelling melting ice.
Trees bristle,
but not in a warm way
almost shuddering
and the earth’s sponge flexes
making ready its scent
sensing intercourse
before rain comes.





© Graham Sherwood 04/2015