Petrichor, after a Burial

“The earthy smell that follows rain” from Greek, 
petros,  rock, and  ichor,  the gods’ blood. Its tang 
nuzzles my nose gustily beautiful as your ashes

settle into living loam layered with cedar oils. 
Sweet moisture plumps soil’s organic miniatures to life 
as rain taffetas the leaves, a green you once loved.

Ancient smells reside in my skull, olfactory memory: 
My mother’s aqua-ocean aroma, what I learned most 
when swaddled endless sleeps as a baby, that joy.

One spring I heard country folk in Ottawa remembering 
the distinct smell after winter thaw, when soil relaxes  
the last hard layer. What remains is fragrant peat,

fallow, before sap flows above ground. This moment 
as the Underworld gives up one secret—its scent— 
lingers this morning. It again rises into sunlight.