Petrichor

it has arrived
I can sense it.
infatuation is not at all difficult;
for it lays heavy on my lungs
bronchi, windpipe, a gentle embrace
that only whispers after rain
whether it reeks the intense redolences of humankind
or unleashes nature’s wrath upon the weary
I grow cautious of this feeling —
it is merely a heaviness that grows only with time
two lips that once bore the kiss of a beaten mother
or perhaps a nomad; a fledgling drifter who lost their way
now a spouse, a lover, a friend
or perhaps a dribble -
merely a drop or two
that may bring with it this odour —
no, this fragrance — 
of which I have come to adore.