Petrichor’s Promise

Her fingers—soft, fresh & pink:

Tiny miracles; shyly animated.

Florets, bloomin’ slowly, at dawn;

kissed by soft, orange-gold light.

His hand, rough & raw.

An old tool.

Crushed by time’s cold anvil;

etched by harsh, hard shadows.

Her delicate fingertips reach for the outer edge of future's halo;

his, the glazed crust’s scabbed past.

But, for now, they join ...

Shadow & light’s flickering dance:

Coarse, brown-black, abrasive bark,

grape-vined by soft, slender, jade-stained sprouts.

“1-2-3; 1-2-3; 1-2-3, stop!”

What memories might this moment make?

What stories might it tell?

When he’s been minced to ash & dust—

& she’s become Bordeaux.