Wednesday, May 27, 2009


My muse murmurs a word in the dark,

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.