Earthy, loamy, smell of soil after the rain,
As you walk out to the front garden,
Wishing so much to be those fibrous roots,
That grow, smelling the dewy petrichor.
The sprightly smell of gifted rain,
Amassed on scantily-clayed soil
How little we know of time and space,
How nimbus clouds far away break open,
Making plants rise, knowing
The best they can do is a few hundred feet,
On top of those tall and obese Sequoias
That rise up in Californian thickets.
What beauty lies in the embroidery of green lace,
In a myriad of foliar shapes and sizes,
Carrying the crucible of life, like a blue-green ark
That revolves around her own axis,
A ballerina, whose aquamarine leotards
Smell of the many fragrances of extant life,
Like the dainty white jasmines at nightfall,
And the many hued roses during the day,
And lovers dappled by tropical humidity,
Deodorant-fragranced human bodies
Turning musky, organic, volatilizing,
To fill the ambience in an aroma,
That grows stronger and muskier by the second,
Until stalks, like angiosperm anthers, erupt,
To bathe the fragrance of sprinkled pollen,
On blooms of pink calla lilies.
