The rain is falling as I hang yawning straws for feet, a smirk of knowing growing between us A pharaoh in the meadow No birds fawning. In this field clothed with brown, a windstorm snatches the crown you once placed on me, visible to all My staff jostles somewhere in a puddle’s distortion. A fine bed calls for me Nothing appealing comes to mind. Mud entangles me, mad In this spring, everything refuses to die except the jostling staff you left me with. Forever is too long The rain is slowing I limp towards it. The staff—broken before it ever was. As I was, before I lost your grace