Branches shake a little so that raindrops caught in cobwebs sparkle in the light.
My shoes squeak on wet grass until I decide to walk barefoot.
I jump in tea-colored puddles and let my ankles smear in mud.
I always ignore roses and watch humble white lilies bowing their heads to the rain.
Like a formerly royal lady who has lost her gold but not her grace, Bahaava stands smiling with a little yellow left among its leaves.
Ah, the pleasure of loving the unlovable.
You would never know until you keep loving the petrichor.
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