it falls upon the earth at night;
its tireless ways,
collects it into thirsty pebbles;
and time becomes lost in any eyes that will hold it.
The slightest word dissolves it.
Some say there is nothing out here worth believing in,
nothing to hold onto.
I say, maybe.
Maybe the entire rhythm of the universe
is locked away inside each droplet,
and if I stand here long enough, noticing,
at least one tiny particle will break open
wide enough for me to catch it,
all wet and shining from the morning,
full, and glittering with promise.
Sarah Rehfeldt lives with her family in western Washington where she is a writer, artist, and photographer. Her poems have appeared in Appalachia; Weber – The Contemporary West; Presence: An International Journal of Spiritual Direction; and Kaleidoscope: Exploring the Experience of Disability through Literature and the Fine Arts. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart prize in poetry. Sarah is the author of Somewhere South of Pegasus, a collection of image poems. It can be purchased through her photography web pages at www.pbase.com/candanceski