The Smell of Rain
The smell of rain
on blacktop,
baked hot
in long dry summers.
With sweet notes of tar
the electric singe
of ozone.
And the earthiness of dust
that has settled
on everything.
Asphalt
black, when it was laid
steam-rolled, steaming
is now cracked, and grey.
Where tired weeds poke up,
as greedy for rain
as us.
Just a smattering
a sheen, a glisten,
and the distinctive scent
is overpowering.
Takes me back
to doldrum days
when time weighed heavy.
And who would admit
looking forward to school?
Or to feelings of guilt
for the waste
of something so precious?
Sitting by the road
tossing stones
at nothing.
Even then
when summer seemed endless.
And after that
all the time in the world.
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