I watch the empty bucket begin to fill
with droplets of rain.
The wood begins to darken,
patterns revealed in disarray.

Water seeps into the fine lines --
and flows into the next crevasse,
which anxiously awaits
the next storm.

The morning dew staves off drought,
but the wood lightens in haste.
Winds empty the spaces within,
until the bucket is washed again.

This thought leads to another,
and perhaps one day
I'll find out...

Your voice is fixed in the space
like honeycomb in diluted notes,
and your song falls so smoothly
like a clear caress of a light shower.

Melodies inhabit your veins
that circulate from your moons presence.
I said what fruits bloom in your lips
that they perfume your voice of transparency.

I said what fortunate, what crystals,
they fill your voice of blue harmonies;
what music nourishes your throat
like choosing a magical flute.

A generous tree between your blood
in chords of light it is scattered,
and in musical stalks it is risen
like a melodious banner of your soul.

In a brief moment, I thought I was a coy conductor,
my baton a crinkled napkin in my damp, jittery hand,
soon descended on your unsuspecting body...

I peered into the scrunched-up napkin...

And nothing -- you escaped under hawk eyes -- as I dropped the napkin and ran out of the room.