Petrichor

Nature is a theory where trees
Are at the root of our conspiracies,
Trunks of tricks and pseudonyms
With the thunder in their limbs:

Sweet as soil and dark as rain:
Ancient snapshots soiled by pain,
Imaginary places
Peopled with familiar faces,

Airy earthbound souls
Embedded in our aerosols,
The hours of our solar clocks
Wound up in the veins of rocks,

A universe of cosmic sound
Hidden in the simple ground,
The chances of the loamy odds
Fixed by the sporting human gods.

The light of autumn on your face
A road sign pointing into space,
Multiplying ozone scents
That the prescient air augments.


November 9th, 2022