It rained on the bikes we left
lying like skeletons in the quiet cul-de-sac.
Bullets of rain fell against the skin
of the above ground pool.
So hard puddled rainbows
rose from the asphalt and floated away.
Run-off spilled into the creek in the woods
flowing past the old barn
with the tree growing through its roof.
Even the wind chimes had nothing to say.
It was the summer Dudley died
in a house fire in the U.P.
So brittle dry one misplaced cigarette
brought down the whole cabin.
We were just ten, handshake
not yet perfected.
Grey cat became distracted by her shadow.
Ghost sheets of steam danced above the houses.
Worms turned into twigs.
At last I could go out,
into the thick marshmallow heat,
ready to make up for all that I’d missed,
never to reclaim all that had been stolen.