My favourite word, my favourite smell, my favourite feeling.
Petrichor.
The breaking of the drought.
The soft rain falling on the hard dirt.
Both literally and figuratively
the smell of renewal, rebirth, of life.
Petrichor.
Now gone.
The drought continues.
The rain doesn’t come.
The trees and flowers shrivel and die and
Petrichor is nothing but a distant memory
of vibrant life
Petrichor is gone
both literally and figuratively.
Everything is dying
The water dries up
The dirt dries out
The world burns
Koalas scream and
firefighters cry
The only smell is dust and smoke and ash
It’s no wonder I’m struggling to
Love,
February