I cup my hands to collect raindrops, my lord,
variously on my fledgeling palm,
all outstretched and flimsily beseeching
in school-girl cloths on monsoon day,
to come to an asking palm,
over well-fed earth, in alms.
Some raindrops, lord,
do.
They gently trickle down
and affect my skin so,
tickled to triumph,
my baffled sense may know.
and they trust me as basket,
lord,
and I do my best,
to hold them there,
until they find the cracks where my fingers are.
Often, I do wish I had no fingers.
They were trusting enough to reach me,
choosing to land on one loving palm,
over pattering to muddy ground.
I shall honor that.
I’ll hold them and regard them as beautiful
as they shimmer before me,
I see in them plainness and reflections, imaginations and
maybe, inverted images
of futures
and I shall see them there and hear them,
glowering in art of their making.
Dancing to wonder.
and when they inevitable trickle down to the cracks between the fingers, my lord,
when they slip me, even if they never meant to,
on terrifying fall to gravity's calling,
not to worry, my lord,
I will send a tear with them as well,
for company.
like a great love’s purest souvenir.
