Petrichor

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And the sound of wind,
thick and harsh
through the trees,
as it blows the storm away
to haunt someone else;
It leaves behind
the smell of earth;
freshly cleansed,
new, toxins seeping deep,
down, filtering.
Away.
The trail of dark clouds breaking up
opening for the sun
-like sentries making way for their king,
And the king rains down
polishing the streets in light
so they glisten.
And everything is fresh,
And a rainbow graces his presence
just for a moment
he’s shy – sensitive
things must be just right for him to come out.
But all else is green, even dead grass looks greener
now that the rains have stopped.
And the air that had been bounced around and purified,
during the storm
can slow down – and pick up
the fragrant flowers, the sweet earth
and the magic.
Given to us,
For no other reason
than to enjoy.

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