Petrichor; or, The Smell of Wet Earth

not-quite Journaling, 60

“They watch me to see what kind of woman I’ll be. A bad woman. The kind of woman that don’t let herself get taken so easily. A feisty woman. A woman of machetes and undiluted rum. A woman with painful stories and the bravery to claim them.” ~ MLM

10/2/2023: Like in the quote, the poems in Melania Luisa Marte’s collection sing (and roar) thoughts of roots, defiance, community, and a well-loved self.

 

To feel magic,
stick your fingers in the dirt.
To craft magic,
plant a well-loved seed.
To see magic,
care for each sprout and watch it
grow into fruit--
the harvest of your work is always
a taste of real magic.

10/4/2023: I’ve harvested the last of this year’s tomatoes. All right, almost the last… since there are a few left in my Charlie Brown tomato tree.

 

Gift me
the smell of wet earth,
the chaos and strange of rain
untouched,
a devastating moment
alone.

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #98: Earth, Air, Fire, Water.

Drinking October All Year Long

“You have no seasons in that small island of yours,” she says, with a smile that stinks of nurtured ignorance and mirth-rich malice. “That’s why you people flee to our lands, searching for more, wanting better, needing our green springs and the vivid oranges of our falls. So sad.” 

For a fiery moment, her nasty thoughts threaten to shroud my tongue. But I magic the flames into a knowing grin--I won’t let your rot poison my words--and I speak my truth, instead: “In my small island, autumn sleeps in the reds of the coffee cherry. We stir it awake with our fingers, berry by berry, until our baskets are full of warming cups. We drink October all year long. And so could you. But the taste buds of your spirit are dead, and you fail to notice. So very sad.”

photo by Café Gato-Mourisco, on Unsplash

 
photo by Ante Samarzija, on Unsplash

- one of my favorite things about October, while growing up in the Dominican Republic, was the beginning of the coffee harvest. Most of my relatives and some hired hands would come home, to my grandmother’s house, and pick coffee beans. The work was exhausting, but the songs, the food, and the company made it wonderful.

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #97: October!