A drop of water crawls, hesitant, down the windowpane
As a spider might. Surface tension holds
A globe of it in place just long enough
To lend its shape. You know nothing of this, just as
You do not know it tenderly holds to
Its promise, its mother’s orb: just as you do not
Understand that light must be invisible
Until refracted; it is both beam and wave,
Particulate, yet passing in its time.
Small journeys teardrops make, down window panes.
But the Rubicon is only a shallow river,
Promise misunderstood, yet bandied much
In conversation like a point of fact;
And despite your rhetoric and all your cries,
Was never wide.
Cry me a river. But this time, make it the Nile. Much more historically important.