Petrichor

Fat summer raindrops make my mind go weak,

Rich, pungent earth; between my toes it drains.

I squint to heaven, wet tracks on my cheek,

The sun too bright, diffused behind the rain. 

Back home this means the devil beats his wife,

Her tears fall toward us, full of salt and sin.

He's raging at our sunshine, love, and life.

I think his wife's more beautiful than him.

But here they call it petrichor, the smell

Of earth and rainfall and of sweet relief.

My children, dressed as Teacup, Beast, and Belle,

Enact their version, crown of twig and leaf.

Others write our story at first, but then,

We come of age and take away the pen.