It’s raining hard today. The day is more like night, the spring is more like fall, and in the yard a driving wind lays waste to the little tree that, seeming not to, stands steady and firm; it seems among the plants like a too-green adolescent grown too tall. You watch it. It may be your pity stirs for all of those white flowers the north wind strips from it; and they are fruit, sweet preserves we set aside for winter, those fallen flowers spread across the grass. And your vast maternity aches for them, all.