Agrimmeer DeMolay‘s poem: inside the rain
the zing of petrichor surrounds you before you’re pelted
by the speech of the storm,
wind wrapping around limbs, so you can hear them
breathing like a tree’s.
and you’re tempted to open your brief
and let all its ink run,
standing, soaked, considering,
until the sun again finds you.
Agrimmeer is still trying to learn how not to be an alien in this place, and he thinks that a good way to walk that learning curve is to create these things called poems and to pave the direction travelled with them (and some directions not travelled too). He also believes all poems are really parts of one large universal poem that goes everywhere.