Whispers After Rain
by Mirakos

The sky exhales, a velvet hush—
a hush that sinks through lichen’s brush,
where aspen leaves, in trembling grace,
catch drops like kisses on their face.

Stone granite hums beneath my feet,
still warm with sun, now touched by sweet
aromas rising from the floor—
the sacred breath of petrichor.

Pine cones glisten, split and bare,
unfolding secrets in the air.
Mushrooms bloom like hidden art,
soft lanterns lit in earth’s dark heart.

You take my hand—your fingers cold—
we walk where moss begins to hold
the memory of the storm’s refrain,
the scent of love, the ghost of rain.

Between the roots where wild things grow,
where foxglove nods and waters flow,
I swear I hear the forest sigh,
as if the rain taught it to cry.

So here beneath the aspen’s skin,
I breathe you deep, I drink you in—
and every stone and branch and pore
now speaks your name
in petrichor.