Silver rain falls in stinging skewers as I traipse beneath street lamps. Their warm glow tosses haloes over my head like ideas for poems. I hunch, cross my arms over my Shetland wool sweater. It’s not that I’m against the pyramid-slant of the watery slashes, the wrong words that splat randomly on the empty page. I just wonder why the reams of water in this cold air aren’t snowflakes sprinkled like powdered sugar, a smattering of white freckles on my florid cheeks, pearl-like words on a blank black page.