Petrichor I


Fingertips drumming beats on glass
perfuming the air like the lingering breath
of a southern June.

Painting the leaves and moss,
the bark,
the sky,
a palette stirred by watery tides.

Streaking down cheek and lingering
in each isolated strand,
eavesdropping on lashes,
reminders of our own composition,
chilling us to the bone.

The lullaby of nature’s rhythm section
a symphony so sweet,
to think
at least briefly
that a harmony could be reached
rather than desecration.

Soft cascades of lazy kisses,
wet on breast and brow,
gently flows and fills this life’s long river,
winding ’round and down.

+ Katie +

2 thoughts on “Petrichor I


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