Walking home at the end of a warm ramble.
A cool rain began to fall
And from the hot asphalt
Captured in the sweep of headlights passing
A thin and lacy steam rose slow and low
Like ghosts of mushrooms from the road
An unexpected delight
That I have never seen before.
Maybe it was just the right angle and
Just the right temperature of road and rain or
Maybe it's always been there and
Maybe I've always had my eyes closed
Dizzily inhaling petrichor,
But I would just like to write it down
Against the times I am feeling like existence has grown stale,
And all its riches have worn thin, wrung out and been hung up to dry -
Right here on this street
With rain tunneling through my thick hair to kiss my head
With a wet dog panting and reeking beside me
With forty years streaming out behind me like a wrinkled cape
With these same old eyes
I saw something new.
