Petrichor Chronicles

(I have been meaning to write about the rains for a while, those blissful companions of readers around the world, which make our hearts flutter with joy and leave a warm, poetic essence in our soul. Here I finally am, journeying. I know this is short, but, believe me, is heartfelt. Hope y’all like it! :))

The swelling incense of life flutters as the rain descends all around me. The inoculum of existence manifests itself in its own ethereal chaos. The chaos is a beauty in itself. They say that the simplest is the best. But the elegance of randomness is a charm to behold.

I take my befuddled mind between those spectral drops, all the while letting the earthy smell hold me and caress me. It somehow is peaceful and torturous at the same time. The drops hold life in them, slithering through the grooves of the grey road, reaching the muddy earth and nourishing a soul.

As I walk, I can feel the damp heat rising from the ground, enveloping me in a misty shroud. It has a mystical quality to it. My fingers entwine with those weightless drops, the water filling the recesses, seeping in and enriching. Contentment fills my fragile heart.

The perpetual fall gives rise to a kind of serene music. The patter of raindrops seems to resonate with my heart, beating together, establishing a chaotic order. The streets are drenched in the music, the green trees and plants gently swaying in response to the conductor.

I enter an area of dense undergrowth. I feel lost, but there is a sense of belongingness. The raindrops filter through the green leaves, the slow tap of the falling drops caressing my ears. A storm has turned the sky into a mysterious, soft grey. The trees hold those pearly drops at the edge of the leaves, hanging like a mirror, reflecting the fauna. The ground is absorbing the essence of it all.

There is something in the air, something magical, calling through those sugary chirps and the wet rustle. The fallen leaves form a soft bed, shining in a mischievous glory. I fall. I feel the leaves, the moist dust, and stop.

I stay there. Trapped forever, feeling nothing at last.

The roadside flowers,

Too wet for the bee,

Expend their bloom in vain.

Come over the hills and far with me,

And be my love in the rain.

-Robert Frost