and collects in the clouds,
in the sky, in the air,
until it returns as rain
or, after the morning mist rises,
as dew — rain that doesn't fall,
but visits all the houses of the grass,
every bush and flower.
Water does this. And your words
visit and nuture me like water.
But a day, a month, six months later
where are your words and promises
when autumn comes and the leaves wither?