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.