Because, really, I come up with either decent titles or decent poems, but seldom both.
A drop of water just hangs out, undisturbed.
A hand tilts the surface;
the drop slides towards the edge.
Tilt the other way;
the drop follows suit.
Eventually, the sun will reach
its red giant stage;
the drop (wherever it is)
will evaporate into nothingness,
or whatever the next stage
of what we think of as nothingness
Poor little drop of water.
(6 September 2020)
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