My goal is that eventually the title and the poem will have no connection whatsoever (a poem)

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
may be.

Poor little drop of water.

(6 September 2020)

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