i woke to the scent of petrichor —
that dust-on-the-rain smell
that always makes my heart
ache for spring. there was no
consoling sight of creeping green
when i lifted head from pillow
to peer out the window, but
the eastern sky was flaming rose
with an exhuberance that seemed to say
look well; we shall not meet again.
the borders have worn thin of late.
a night or two ago i drifted up
from darkness to the sound
of singing, and only when
the three o’clock fog had lifted
somewhat did i realize the music
was wholly within my own mind.
colors, movement catch the corner
of my waking eye, but when i turn
to look, nothing more is there.
is this what the seed feels like,
waiting to break open and raise
its fragile arms up toward the sky?