Water Games

 Three was my favorite, in the a.m., when you stayed up

while I entertained my thirst. Amidst split reflections and

raindrop moans, I made the soft plea to quench the thirst.

I answered. I lunged to water my drought. I bled you dry and

called it rainfall.

 

     Soon my fingers were tainted by your stream. Yet, you

were the valley in this landscape, carved to take me whole.

So, I drank your torrent, then called you Neretva.  Rough,

rugged boy, I made you scenic, but you didn’t think so.

Farewell, to your emerald glow.

 

     Maybe my heat dried the rain from your skin, or maybe

I breathed in all your clouds. I know that I treasured you like

a crime scene, only because I feared the drought.  But don’t

worry, I’ll make it rain again. Soon enough, I’ll widen the

puncture in my vein.