O, they continue falling.

In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.
For all I have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is poor and paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not happened yet....

My hands are bloody from digging.
I lift them, hold them open in the wind,
so they can branch like a tree.

Reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky
as if you had shattered there,
dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

What is this I feel falling now,
falling on this parched earth,
softly,
like a spring rain?
-Rilke




This land, my sister
This land, captive and possessor
This land, owner and owned
This land, my neighbour


Your legs -my roots
Your arms -my limbs
We remain together
We wait together
We thirst together.





O, we are covered in water and still dry like Indian Summer.