Where the apple trees
tiptoe along the verge of a mad meadow
you can smell the pond dreaming of Daphnia and pigtails.
You can feel the sun like a fire hose of unrelenting conflagration-
on a solar wind with a bruise on it’s cheek by nightfall.
As noble as a snowman stoking a hearth-
by hand, for an orphan selling matchsticks
to a Phoenix.

In the rain.