They call it Petrichor, I call it warm Grassmint
It was raining. I can’t recall loving the rain Particularly a thunderstorm They usually scare the joy out of me Incepting fear and panic right down to my not so small bones Till they sometimes succumb to involuntary shaking But I do love the traces the rain leaves behind Telling whoever who cares to notice I was here First there is the smell of the ground and the grass Petrichor the scientists call it Wafting through the air into my nostrils Smelling like some sort of mint Made from the grass Grassmint I like to call it Mixed with the heat Finding escape from the tight, firm grip of the earth’s crust This smell wafting not just into my nostrils but also up as far as the clouds A process described as convection in science. But this author would like to imagine it as an exchange; A form of appreciation from the ground to the clouds for its release Then, the crusts on the ground the rain forms Very crunchy I’d say Each time my feet takes a step on the crusted ground I’m reminded