in seeing the skin of each rain drop,
so much surface dedication to streamlining cause.
the ocean scaled down
yet promised in waiting.
the dark clouds looming
yet promoting towards return.
liquid elixirs that are ever fluidly migratory,
accepting gravity as their reason
for becoming pooling evidence
and yet, also viscosity, rigorous in defying it.
each drop, a mirror in aerodynamic curvaceousness
yet the see through reflection not true,
to the scale offered to observed.
each drop, slow to respond to temperature change
as if defending its sky-bound ancestry.
it's where's Waldo in this descending crowd?
how precious to experience the first drop falling,
certainly when meeting it face to face.
yet not ever to be considered tears from the sky,
for more of a deliverance to earth, as an offering.
for dust weeps in silent waiting stances.
figure it as if each drop to a flame,
or a full-born tear
to an otherwise unexpressed emotion.
the ground delivers punchlines of captivating splat,
every time a drops ventures to self-listen.
yet a drop done in sketch work
is weathered as a snowflake.
that is the genius
of singleminded geometry presenting.
yet a downed drop regathered
when freely facing the sky,
gives of itself away to an essence
in sky-bound return.
the skin of each drop so pliable and yet cohesive.
so innocent as a presence
yet of surface tension resolve.
it's toad-like subtle when puddled,
aerodynamic when in ubiquitous free-fall,
hard to make flinch in a stare-down,
using wet to express
when flat out first meeting.
but otherwise leaves a signature of ascendency,
over time.
for always on the move,
even if not humanly accounted for by sight.
committed to ascendency in surface surrender.
for each drop is composed
of evaporative soul . . .
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