The Geometric Aroma of the Arid Soil

The dry earth, cracks like drawings,
waits mute, a belly of patience.
It smells not of flowers, but ancient commitments,
beneath the sun that burns its essence.

Then descends the veil, drop by slow drop,
and a chemical breath rises from below.
It is not rain, but its own unveiling,
the silent essence that the soil shows.

Precise molecules, a secret calculation,
of inert bacteria and hidden oils.
An ephemeral scent, a discreet data point,
that measures the droughts and times uncoiled.