Petrichor
The smell of the rain after a dry stretch
Lacquers the mind from the rot of doubt
Before the Greeks ever knew of fungal spores
They were able to get a certain truth out
Divine blood spilt from split stones
Wafts around us in the spring gusts
How strong the heart of stone must be
To squeeze its golden cargo through veins of rock
Every wet stone after a storm is a kind of corpse
That tells us this must be the place
Where a hardness bled to death
So a dying man like you could live
4/27/23
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