Petrichor
Start with a kiln-dry summer day,
when the earth cracks with longing,
and sweat makes tracks between your breasts.
The air's so still you hear a beetle scuttle
on the screen, the sun dims in a sullen sky,
and crickets stop chirping. Maybe they know
what's coming, or they're tired of asking.
Then it starts – the first lazy drops –
and when the wooden porch step's dappled,
you go out and lift your face to the embrace
and breathe in the mix of dust and rain
like a lover's musk.
First published in The Houseboat