Petrichor
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The first drop falls before you hear the thunder—
a dark spot on the pale stone of the path,
and then the smell arrives, that ancient welcome,
the earth releasing all its held-back warmth.
Petrichor: the word the scientists gave
to the thing the poets always knew—
that the earth breathes out in joy when rain arrives,
that the meeting is a form of truth.
There is no scent more immediately honest,
no smell that carries more of what we are—
creatures of the earth, who love the rain,
who know we're home wherever water falls.
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The first drop falls before you hear the thunder—
a dark spot on the pale stone of the path,
and then the smell arrives, that ancient welcome,
the earth releasing all its held-back warmth.
Petrichor: the word the scientists gave
to the thing the poets always knew—
that the earth breathes out in joy when rain arrives,
that the meeting is a form of truth.
There is no scent more immediately honest,
no smell that carries more of what we are—
creatures of the earth, who love the rain,
who know we're home wherever water falls.
