I remember that day
at the river.
A single drop of rain
fell from the end of your nose
as you turned and walked away.

I stood,
watching the ground soak up
the tears of the sky,
and wanted to
drop
on my knees in the mud
& scratch at the earth with fingernails
breaking
to recover it.

Had it sketched along the ground
to join the river
(now swelling into a torrent,
just like me) I would have
dived
into its cool embrace,
to drown, be dashed to pieces--
whatever
--just to be closer to you.

Had it trickled between the stones,
creeping from sight
into the crack of a rock,
I would have grown roots
to reach you,
& split any barriers between us
(willingly have been crushed in a rockslide).
Happily.
Just to connect once more.

I would have traversed a desert
when the sun was at its highest;
hands held out in supplication
for that single drop of water
which keeps me alive.
The mere hope would have
sustained me
for mirage after stum.bling mirage,
that hope of my thirst being quenched.

I would have done that-
and more
-but I stood
(that day at the river)
watching your drop disappear
into the earth below,
mingling with the anonymous rain
(to whom did those drops belong?)
& wanting
to fall to my knees,
to press into the earth below.

And still--I wait.

I will not move from this place
until that drip has passed into the atmosphere,
and returned,
...f a l l i n g...
on my waiting nose.

I am on my knees.