It smells of rain,
the air; thick with it.
Uneven sidewalk has morphed into a bed for worms and filth.

Debris obedient to the wind land in the pond that fell from above,
The island floats, swirls, and bobs,
Its summoned toward the edge and is lost to the abyss of the gutter.

The path has turned into a melancholy lake,
juices of the soft earth devour my feet,
hills evolve to swamp.

Trees grow heavy with the gift sent from above,
so heavy they turn into second hand gifts for me.

Leaves fall to the ground in random precision,
Piles of butterfly wings blown by the wind.
This field is a palate from the artist with the dark face that hides in the sky