I can smell summer rain on the horizon,
See it in the silver bellied leaves
And the way you look to the sky
in innocent anticipation.
I will watch as you lie on the road,
eager to preserve the white dust with your body,
I will stand beneath the apple tree
And sympathize with the round, purple bruises
That the water makes on your skin
But I will not stay when the floods come
I will not watch your hop-scotch game
As it trickles down the hill to the playground
Where the vacant swings have already started swinging,
Keeping time with the summer rain
as it pummels our apple tree.