Slipping through

It's in my grip now

Forever elusive:

slipping through the crevices of

my now-hardened fingers

or lying in tiny pools

lost in it's own thoughts.

~

The sun darts through 

the canvas of heaven:

sends an array of mute mutineers

upon the not-so-tiny pools

until each drop does fly, euphoric.

~

But as the moon comes over

and darkness casts it's spotlight

upon those that fly ecstatic-

fortunate freedom and drunken dreams

condense as dead drops upon blades of grass.

~

And I wonder if I can ever grasp

the tantalizingly clasp-able tentacles

of my mind, as I struggle

to keep water willfully 

between the plains of my palms. 

*Image taken from Google.com