We know of the rain burning
the scent of orange blossom deep into skin,
five perfumed pistils like tiny fingers wagging
their come-on to start new life. We know
of yellow stars tumbling to ground, teetering on pointe,
their diamond-sharpened edges etching water the color
of blue ice. We know of valleys in the moon
so capacious we must mime our own arms spreading
wide to contain their black depths. We know of the fold
of too-sun-tanned leaves giving up their grip.
Here, now, we welcome sleep quartered into its seasons,
let brain-stormed days break from fevered nights.
© 2012 Maureen E. Doallas