Petrichor

by James Crews

I open the door, step from the wet deck,
and release petrichor with my bare feet,
leaving tracks across the yard as I inhale 
petrichor in greens pulled from the garden, 
grit and soil lining the seams of leaves.
Who knew we had a word for the scent
of rain I take in this morning—petrichor,
like some forgotten spirit called forth
after the longest dry spell in memory
and waking with a sigh let go by grass
every time the drizzle slows and stops,
then starts up again. Petrichor lifts the mist 
of sleep from me, dissolves my darkest 
dreams in which there’s nothing left 
of this world but cracked and sizzling
blacktop and concrete, until I crave 
the mud pies my mother used to pack 
with me, saying, Don’t be afraid to get messy, 
smearing a streak of mud across 
my cheek, and showing me with her
careful hands how to shape the earth.