Petrichor: home, soil, and rain

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Free Association.”

Take my brain and mushroom cloud it

split neuronal atoms and watch them dance in spring sunbeams:

We lay on emerald and watched titans undulate the clouds

like they were winter rugs brought outside to air.

The trees, old matrons heavy with care,

swayed rushes of antiquated maternity.

Wintergreen contrasts of snow on spring growth,

a blooming violet glittering with droplets,

bending subtly under the life-giving weight

and all the more beautiful for its burden.

We took off our shoes

squelched in mud puddles and

recognized our oneness with the world.

I pointed to the tallest tree on campus,

remarked how lovers may have inscribed their names

and though bumps in a ring of rings are the only evidence,

it is just as true a moment as it ever was.


My gravestone shall read: “If only he applied himself…”

My gravestone shall read: “If only he applied himself…”

Delivering the eulogy, Father Time will say
“From incalculable chaos an infant was born,
and possessed was he of abilities so uncanny,
that, had he but tried, he could have sung
the oceans into a silent reverie.
The mountains too, upon listening to
his stirring rhetoric, would have risen up
in passionate response,
frothing magma in their wild exuberance.
I fashioned for him not merely days,
not even years, but whole decades with which
he could master the fragile elements
clinging to the reality he robed himself with.
Yet, in his infinite ineptitude, he considered the cowl
the extent of his world,
the robe HE donned was the limit of his mental mobility.
And thus, there he stood. A lifetime.
Transfixed and blinded by the reality he wrought for himself,
while sprites and imagination incarnate,
drawn to the spirit within,
danced a vernal jig about his hems,
at last,
falling to his knees,
bent by the waxing years of his bounded humanity,
he lifted his gaze,
and marveled, at the possibilities that had always been within his reach.