Evening, wind
wrestling one
brief rush from the hundred flame
-like leaves in the grove. Oranges
bobbing,
heavy,
the season
between these gravities.
Our child in her longest shadow runs through the hymn
of fruit and light,
of air
that picked up the dark
and so picked itself
to be something cool and soft.
Everywhere, citrus
and fantasy
ripples electric on the tongue,
the trees themselves night pillars.