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
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