First the slow blush, slow-moving

and bronze crossing leaves tremulous

with the wind’s heartbeat quickening –

and petrichor with its attendant longing,


then gathered anger in black-beetled brows,

raised voices, footsteps stamping on the floor.

Sky descends on earth in long charcoal shadow

and everywhere, rising petrichor.


Look up and lift your hands to the miracle

of raindrops falling, each a world of neon and orange

leaving whirls on pavements, glittering mud

and always petrichor, saudade.


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