Sweat, Thirst

My winkled brow begins a bead of sweat

that falls unhurried, so slow, to my cheek.

Cacophonies of layered stress feign threats.

Life is speed of task, detail and technique,

while this patient drop stretches the courser.

The bead moves, falling in the creased, close corners

where mouth and tongue swipe, where visions murmur:

.

Flint brine of cast iron tinted oysters,

while sweet and light like spring and dark as fall.

Just cut vegetable stalk oozing out juice.

Under ripe berry too young, it’s too tart,

.

that fell from the bush, now covered in burrs.

I taste like a stream beginning to crawl

over mineral ore, underneath spruce,

cooled by a splash where a tree fell apart.

.

There’s poison, or elderflower liqueur;

lofted lost flowers that wilt on the wall,

drying in heat that the sun has let loose.

Chaff dusted droplet when winds up and start

.

whipping the wheatfields when thunder occurs,

the roll over shoulder. Rain starts its fall.

Large overcast clouds wring out and diffuse

a drip to my brow, slow falling in part

.

to re-pose the immoderate passion

of taste, detail and thirst for perfection.

.

I would like a glass of water.