Meditations on Foliage
I adore the smell of the rain.
Not the rain itself,
per say.
but what it touches,
makes transparent.
Makes glimmer with a liquid coat,
like resin,
preserved for a second,
until all melts and shrinks to paste
and gives way to the warmth of the rain.
Foliage, once dry and cracked,
discarded,
now a river of orange and brown,
all together emitting reams up reams
of that sweet smell of wet ground.
And never do I stop to think,
if I smell the oak, the maple, the pine.
Under the affections of the downpour,
all is as sweet as nectar
as bold as wine.