Petrichor

Was it you scarce
charted mariner
of thoughts, first of aromatic
earth, who dreamt
not shelter, nor dance, nor kiss, but

feast of olfaction? Was
the turf both palette and paint
from where you stood, or
did the ocean melt
color from its cloud-city
embrasure, drowning all
vacant sense of lonely?

Was love a veil
of mist you’d smoke
at dusk before it rained,
and, when it rained, did
Earth become that lover,
that terrestrial perfume?

Could you tell me, mariner,
tell me what you dreamt,
you smelt, you saw:
And if you could,
‘O mariner,
what it means to know?

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