My muse murmurs a word in the dark,
a bug in my ear, caught crawling
through pages, or snatched
from the airwaves, scribbled on scrap,
an atomic surprise just lying in wait.
She's saved it for a stormy night,
or a morning like this,
where the black blood of gods
runs roughshod through gutters,
out to the garden,
down the windows in rivers,
over-topping the birdbath,
to quench the parched maples.
Later, after sunrise, I'll be tempted, I know,
to walk barefoot and shirtless,
take a roll through the grass
while steaming from the cup
that I leave on the porch,
a redolent french roast,
plays counterpoint perfume
to a mushrooming
petrichor mélange.
© 2009 Dan Collins
4 comments:
I guess it would have to be canichor, from the canis root + ichor. There. I said it.
And please pay my respects to your husband, who has as fine a way with words as you do with color.
lol ... i love it! Canichor: the scent of wet dog after a rain. Sounds good to me.
Beautiful and romantic in so many ways for you!
Beautiful!! Beautiful!!
It's great to see your Scottie in the pic.
Lynn
Post a Comment