My favourite word, my favourite smell, my favourite feeling.
The soft rain falling on the hard dirt.
The breaking of the drought.
The smell of renewal, rebirth, of life
both literally and figuratively,
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
The only smell is dust and smoke and ash
It’s no wonder I’m struggling to