Petrichor - Aug 1 2021

 

Petrichor

Aug 1 2021

I remember shivering,

soaked to the skin

in the cold and dark.

Wind-driven,

the rain came sluicing down

in heavy sheets that raked the ground

and quickly overflowed.

And out of the blue, sun showers

on a humid summer day,

a spritz of rain

that came and went

and came again;

steam

rising from the lush green grass.

And electrical storms,

when thunder blasted

lightning cracked the sky,

hammering

the black anvil clouds

towering overhead.

When aftershocks rumbled

foundations shook.

When the air itself felt charged,

as if any imbalance

could set off sparks,

like live wires

that almost touch.

When fear

pulsed in my veins,

and torrential rain, mixed with hail

cascaded down hard.

But mostly, the all-day rain

that broke the drought.

When parched air hung limply

the world was covered in dust,

sharp-eyed buzzards

circled expectantly.

Just in time

to quell raging fires

replenish grudging wells.

To restore plants

famished for water,

heal cracked dry earth

and return it to life.

I looked up

and let the steady rain 

wash gently over me,

soaking my hair

running down my face

trickling into my mouth,

its cool sweet taste

an oasis in the desert sand.

And the smell

of sun-dried earth,

so thirsty for the first few drops.

Today's offering from Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac (see below) had me thinking of rain.

Not that I haven't been already. Because we had a long hot dry spell, when I was increasingly worried about not only forest fires – which we could smell burning every day – but my well going dry. So today, after recent rain, and when I found myself about to complain about some unseasonably cool weather, I immediately reprimanded myself for losing perspective. Rain on the mind. Both too little and too much.

There's a previous poem by the same name (you'll find it on the blog at Aug 21 2014), but once the poem was completed, I couldn't resist using it again. I can see a reader wondering about the title – such an uncommon word – having it lure her to read the poem, and then getting into it and having the title completely slip her mind. Until the final few lines, that is, when the connection suddenly clicks, the meaning becomes clear, and she gets a satisfying sense of completion.

My problem with Keillor's choice of poem today is its sentimentality. I guess I'm uncomfortable when it gets too personal, and find descriptive pieces come more naturally. Nevertheless, it's a good poem. And I appreciate the inspiration! The period at the end of the title isn't a typo. I think his intent was to signal a certain finality: that the longing won't necessarily be answered; that it's an ongoing state, an end in itself. 

This Longing.
by Martin Steingesser

. . . awoke to rain
around 2:30 this morning
thinking of you, because I'd said
only a few days before, this

is what I wanted, to lie with you in the dark
listening how rain sounds
in the tree beside my window,
on the sill, against the glass, damp

cool air on my face. I am loving
fresh smells, light flashes in the
black window, love how you are here
when you're not, knowing we will

lie close, nothing between us; and maybe
it will be still, as now, the longing
that carries us
into each other's arms

asleep, neither speaking
least it all too soon turn to morning, which
it does. Rain softens, low thunder, a car
sloshes past.