There was something about the nose that sniffed,
Of whimpering daisies as they made their home
In the cracks of the sidewalk;
Trampled did they become.
Only sight-seeing until the sky
Turned people,
A notion of indirect sustenance to catapult
The daisies as far
Wayward
As the sky.
The ratified anti-contextual
Notion
That this thunderstorm,
Too shall pass.
The little shells in the ground, abided me so;
Left me trailing and so,
So, I figure
That by some time in June
The duck will waddle through a moat.
And in my round spectacled black-rims
Another neighbor
Will pass by through
And get to say “Hello-”
petrichor - archive 