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
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.