Petrichor

Perhaps you’ve known this word for years.

I met it only today,

though I’ve known its meaning

since childhood.

It is the fragrance

that rises from thirsty earth

when rain arrives—

the hidden chemistry

of stone and soil,

of roots and moss,

of fields that have waited

through long, dry days.

How strange

that something so familiar

could walk beside me

for decades

without introducing itself.

Now I have its name.

Petrichor.

A word that settles on the tongue

as softly

as rain settles on dust.

Some words explain.

Some words measure.

Some words simply open a door.

This one

returns me

to every summer shower

I have ever stood beneath,

reminding me

that wonder often waits

for us to recognize it.

Perhaps that is the gift

of finding a new word—

not discovering something

that wasn’t there before,

but finally having a name

for something

we have always loved.