Drops

Drops

The mist
a lure
into the secret
world of ‘nothingness’

Captured, Spirit
now hanging from a
lonely branch of pine needles
drops of moisture clinging
to their ‘heads’

Yet…
nothing here is a possession
all drink freely
awaiting the sun which itself
will sip from the dew
drying almost every last drop
until the dawn

Shadows appear—
once again
vapor moves across time & space
in unmeasured speed
kissing softly not only
the slender pines but, too,
my ‘spirit’

after thinking all was lost
dampened by
the unexpected
drenched as if born anew