Click on any photo to enlarge all.
Dust to Rain
The world, my dear, is dust to rain
over and over and again.
It is as true as it is sad
that relief cannot be had
unless some travail happens first.
How can we quench unless we thirst?
Those times you go without a trace
of raindrops on your upturned face
give way to petrichor—they must
as finally rain comes down to dust.
Bountiful years follow the drought.
It is the way the world’s planned out.
Grandparents tell their younger kin
that drought is the result of sin
or hurricanes our penance for
those misdeeds the gods abhor.
But this is all mistaken lore
dispelled by whiffs of petrichor.
The prompt words for today were trace, kin, bountiful and petrichor ( the pleasant, distinctive smell frequently accompanying the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions.)