Petrichor

My muse murmurs a word in the dark,

a bug in my ear, caught crawling

through pages, or snatched

from the airwaves, scribbled on scrap,

an atomic surprise just lying in wait.

She's saved it for a stormy night,

or a morning like this,

where the black blood of gods

runs roughshod through gutters,

out to the garden,

down the windows in rivers,

over-topping the birdbath,

to quench the parched maples.

Later, after sunrise, I'll be tempted, I know,

to walk barefoot and shirtless,

take a roll through the grass

while steaming from the cup

that I leave on the porch,

a redolent french roast,

plays counterpoint perfume

to a mushrooming

petrichor mélange.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Wikipedia: Petrichor (from Greek petros, "stone" + ichor "blood of the gods") is the name of the scent of rain on dry earth.

I always wondered what the word for this was. Now I know.