Wet Soil’s Smell

The rain drops fall
Slowly at first,
As if afraid to touch the earth,
As if scared of its response.

One by one,
They gauge its warmth,
As if to know if it is ready,
As if to know how hard to fall.

The rain picks up speed,
More confident with every new moment,
As if it’s now sure,
As if this is its destiny.

Yet there is that occasional pause
As abrupt as unexpected,
As if it is still confused,
As if it still waits for something.

Slowly and steadily,
Arises in the air
The wet soil’s smell,
To make the rain smile.

Though just an aroma to some,
It means the world to the rain,
As if it’s the approval it awaited,
As if it’s what they created.