By Jodette P
Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter.
Droplets of liquid crystal fall from the dull skies.
I can hear them, their song as they fall.
They are a choir.
It smells sweet, sweet, sweet and fresh.
It is the lingering smell of evaporating grass.
It is the smell of soil, amongst the gas we breathe.
It is the smell of free crystals.
Soft lines and gentle shading.
Green pencils slide their soft tips,
Blue and grey paint, splashed and moist.
Soft blend and gentle strokes.
The thunder roars from afar,
“I will be back,” it echoes.
The crystals fall in thinning layers.
I catch them as they do.