Pet Rich Ore

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(Dedicated to chemotherapy)

I feel a sense of aftermath,

In rivers, lakes and ponds.

Fog, water’s mystical state

Lifted the ground up by noon

You can do the math:

What’s left over after a storm?

Storms send a distinct message

Precise, yet misunderstood.

They instead try getting attention

By bringing up from the roads

An oily ascension for us to ride.

And from the the earth rising

Over snaking Mountain roads

Like in a romance movie

We stop to admire the heights

To which we’ve risen.

We act in front of the evergreen

Screen, returning to the journey

On roads so slow and slippery

and wet. I stay behind

waiving goodbye to my

Now-relinquished memory.

Once over the peaks sent

Sliding to the valley

You reach the beach without

Me, forgetting to wave goodbye.

Through the night beams

Mirrors from lighthouses

Pointing the way for lonely ships

Having come over the horizon’s

On the vastness of the ocean

A brain of of gray crevices

Knowing it’s own way to the shore.

Foggy and neglected, recollect

Years before, a pear-green sky

Ripened and began blowing.

Curtains beckoning with arms

To look inside what was once private

Where a state of false safety

Meant nothing could harm us there.

Finally the storm bursts

Breaking through a window.

There its claps and growling sounds

Are met by an unkept dog

The little one that came

with her name already

Hanging from her neck:

“Petrichor.”

The memory of finality, for

Remembering the oily scent,

That separated here from then

Brought tears of sorrow and regret.

That morning all the creatures

Rose up to hear a small sigh of relief

From Petrichor’s crooked mouth

Holding a sign in her crooked teeth.

When water rises after it falls

The ghosts of memory abound

Relieved of their swampy mystery

To finally rest in the ground.

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