hit the ground, splinter.

so the trees stole the rain sometime overnight
and now underneath canopies of barebones branches
the water drips as if it is entitled to, like it knows.

inside there is more breakfast to eat and a canister
of coffee to find on a shelf, and when i put a spoon
in the sink, i see the butterfly preserved in a plastic bag.

on the crevice between sidewalk and natural slush
a line of ice smashes, fallen from the electric wire
overhead. the ice breaks into small rectangles.

if i fan out like a snow angel i could touch every piece.