Orange blossoms on candy apple trees; nonsense never mattered much to me. Do you feel snakes in your toes like a curse on your modesty? Speak up and out! I doubt you realize how different those two things can be. "Shake dreams from your hair, my pretty child" and forgive me now for dawn is the least of all I've wasted. I don't much care if you mind that I'll be growing figs where you always hoped I'd plant pine trees. Then I suppose if you really did feel the same curse that I have, our torn-rooted feet would have hissed and begged for a bit more thistle and violets instead. Do not mistake pointed words for silence; I know hope and color beyond reason. I miss mud in my hands and the blades of broken grass lying flush with the skin of my ankles. Loneliness is a lack of wind but bitterness is wind-blown grit in my teeth; I will never say I do not love them both. It's easy to miss the burn of coastal sun and forget the feel of sand under your fingernails. I have fought when it was not asked of me and I have been calm when I should have thrown a punch. Still you ask sharp pine of me when all I hope to grow is the soft wide leaves of fig trees. Don't look for anything but nonsense, because after the orange blossoms wilt I will caress tender leaves and watch blue Cuckoo birds carry away my ill-planted figs.