At midday, the tender needles
of the Douglas fir cradle rain drops
not yet stolen by the sun.
A brush of the hand and they are yours,
diamonds dripping from your fingers.
By touch or time, by gusts of wind from below
the sloping hill, they must, against my longing,
fall to the earth.
It is evening now, and I hold a secret wish
that in those unseen places,
away from touch and sun and wind,
some drops remain.
But I cannot know for sure. I am not there.
And I dried my hands long ago.
