Petrichor

June 24, 2017
The rain turns up sweet, and musky familiarity.
      It reeks of the inside of your closet; the smell of your oldest and heaviest coats.
Drops weep down the trees.
     Their fragile drop run raggedly across the abrasive bark.
         Into the matted, grassy head of the earth.
They comb the earth’s hairs into unison direction with their runoffs; which collect to a rushed and rippled tide.
    It is all painted in deep and genuine notes of color.

Author: sophiapoetryandetcetera

Trying to make it to happiness.

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