The first mizzle of monsoon falls on his dermis,
He senses a tickle in his nose, the petrichor.
The meadow douches itself,
The loam suspires a sigh of ease, as if it's a bairn who's back to it's mother's lap.
He gazes at the meadow, his mind at solace at last.
The first mizzle of monsoon brings him a vow.
The rain is an old comrade to him, who stops by to assuage his quandary.
He sleeps a slumber of ataraxy this night,
He knows he will not suspire his last of starvation.
😶