Approaching the middle, imagined
assignations in a hillside park: fruitless
olive, bearded iris, golden breath
of heaven. Benches in empty sunlight.
At Coldwater, a rivulet snakes as wide
as a small girl’s footprint. Nodding pincushion,
bower vine, silver carpet. Fire station sentinel
along the road to riches, and across the way,
trees behind a cyclone fence, heavy
with fruit no one picks. Whose trees these are
I will never know, last vestiges of eden—
mountain above, houses below.
Children play when water is allowed to run.
Oranges drop uneaten to the ground.