Old and hairy, but it has a point.

God Pours and pours
his dousing rain upon the
somewhat open earth.
See, I’m a drop that gets caught
in the leaves of a mighty tree;
Sent from father, kept from mother;
Desperate-
like an infant weened.
Suspended between my maker and my mission,
I beg for a strong wind to shake me from my hell.

But what if I then end up in the gutter,
watering dismembered vegetated limbs?
if the sun calls me back into the clouds?
Collect into a puddle?


What if I make mud?


God pours and pours and I am left undrank.

My thoughts evaporate as it thunders-

I am no drop. I am no
Drop.

I am a tree, confusing myself with
what collects above my thirsty roots.