poem

 PetrichorThe smell of the rain after a dry stretchLacquers the mind from the rot of doubtBefore the Greeks ever knew of fungal spores They were able to get a certain truth out Divine blood spilt from split stonesWafts around us in the spring gustsHow strong the heart of stone must beTo squeeze its golden blood through veins of rockEvery wet stone after a storm is a kind of corpseThat tells us this must be the place Where a hardness bled to deathSo that a dying man like you could live4/27/23
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs