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.