It smells like rain
the way it did when I was twelve.
Drops fat rolling on grass.
I’m pushed to the end
of my understanding of what life means—is.
Water, cold, collected in drains.
Who am I
to be smelling the same smell of fresh dirt?
Twenty years later, older, “wise.”
What choices are shaping
the course of the years that stretch on ahead
of me, filled with rain showers?
If I screw up
will this smell become bittersweet?
A memory of all the pain,
I have yet to live?