The Fire That Tests Gold Poem by gregory collins

I want to be the fire that tests gold.
When noon is on the flowers,
and the sun floats along shaping what it wills

and i think in secret,
like the rain would rather die
than let me dream it true.

That the planet's curving cannot teach my hands
the sunshine burns and always doesn't mean security,
and moonlight has plans but those are not promises.

So please answer me this:
Am i a twin to a thorn, or
just a wet and wild cousin to the rose.