Petrachor

There is an aroma of such I shall never bore; the fragrant scent of cloud born petrachor.

Such a perfume as this man has never made. Impossible to capture the scent emitting from every wet, verdant blade.

For in the eve when Mother Nature spritzes her emerald, velvet neck with rain or dew,
The land releases this finest perfume.

If you so find yourself on mountain peak or pass, or upon a smooth summer valley of the greenest grass,
Let your nostrils drink her cup, this fragrance from her thunders mass.