Donna Carey
Petrichor: The smell of rain before it’s arrival, maybe something beyond meaning,
A gasp of the sensation out of a lane, a sense we develop for our very survival.
Them
The herd
Limitless grace
How absurd
They are down the mountain
In the pasture
Feasting on alfalfa
Blueberry clover
Grazing past divisions
Willing to cross over
Wading thru currents
Phase transitions
This is a window
If not today
I’ll wait till autumn
Mustard yellows populate
Aster’s purple
fields
When their sounds
Fill our worlds
And efforts bring yields
I feel them like rain
reconcile presence
for their smell to remain
Gold blood flowing
releasing pain
Devastated environments
Unrelent
Courting chapters
More heaven sent
. . . hesitant flow
Linger here forever
in tufts
Of silent snow
Linger here forever
Till it’s time to go