My favourite word, my favourite smell, my favourite feeling.

Petrichor.

The soft rain falling on the hard dirt.

The breaking of the drought.

The smell of renewal, rebirth, of life

both literally and figuratively,

Petrichor.

Now gone.

The drought continues.

The rain doesn’t come.

The trees and flowers shrivel and die and

Petrichor is nothing but

a distant memory of vibrant life

Petrichor is gone

both literally and figuratively.

Everything is dying.

The water dries up

The dirt dries out

The world burns

Koalas scream and

firefighters cry

The only smell is dust and smoke and ash

It’s no wonder I’m struggling to

Love,
February