Like a blossoming daisy he emerges from the communion of trees,
The green sucked from their leaves by Rip Van Winkle's straw.
As the rain slithers down the brittle tree bark,
He casts aside his clothing,
Where it gathers the pine needles that have fallen.
He mounts his bicycle, knowing the left brake has been eaten by years of neglect,
And plummets down the barren ski slops, exposed without the fluffy snow.
The motion of the wheels splatters mud upon his once-smooth legs,
And he he winces at the blinding wind.
Soon, he nears the bottom of the hill, the pit of James's peach,
And flies into the pristine puddle that awaits.
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