Water Line

Raindrops connect us to the clouds,

sometimes in whisper, sometimes

in a bullhorn from the balcony,

getting wet is getting the message.

Like love, at the border of a family,

there's always never enough to go around

unless we stand in it, faces up,

hands outstretched like pails and a chalice.

It's up there, what we need down here.

Balloons, kites, and prayers know this;

the falling down, the coming to terms,

is the simple miracle of our blue planet.

Wet back, dry throat,

the clouds migrate across oceans of sand.

A cup of water to the least of these

is grace breaking open the damned.