Which is it that separates a leaf from a tree, a raindrop from the sky,
you from mine?
Where the bearer clings and holds steadfast, yet still in time detaches.
And fickle promises to withered words return,
as do trees transpire to the undergrowth from where it came first.
Must be the meandering drought my heart endures that crippled our jointed parts,
Or those dim tears,
your heavy eyelids detain,
weeps till our grasps slip.