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Petrichor
April 16, 2014
The smell sounds blue.
The air is aching.
The sight feels true.
The clouds are breaking.
The winds blow over broken trees,
Soil, moisture, bacteria.
The waves flow over fractured seas,
Let loose, released, forsythia.
Silence, sighing, supine,
As we lay on the shore.
Look to the horizon line,
And breathe in petrichor.
© Terrin C., Humboldt, IA
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