Lightning hit you
from the orchard cliff
and something
poured into your
pink-orange
in the mud-black.
I lay in your shade
with hands that touched mine
the way light touches air.
Wind blew through our eyes.
We ate you sun-clean
as hawks swooped over us—
labyrinthitis of the sky.
We felt the earth,
sunlight was our blanket,
your juice grazed our tongues
red-tinged skin spilled your seeds.
It could have been St. Elmo
sizzling your branches.
Dozens dropped on us—
sun-fire, stone-pit—
we bit the skin with our nails.