Petrichor
By Dave
It begins
with stillness—
not absence,
but waiting,
the air dense
with what might fall.
A single drop—
hesitant,
testing
the curve of a leaf.
It tilts
toward it.
The hush deepens.
Then another—
then many—
and the rhythm stirs:
flesh of water
on bone of earth,
slow,
then surer,
then everywhere.
The soil breathes out—
a musk of root and stone,
of things kept
buried
until now.
Each scent is a signal.
Each sound a beckon.
The earth is damp with wanting
long before
the storm breaks.