This is happiness

this,

this is rain, rather,

this is dew, it sweats

long after day has gone, then

night which goes too, and new day has arrived,

this is rain, rather,

this is dew, and newly born it

forms on outstretched limbs,

humbly, to beg of fresh 

light, this, 

this is rain,

rather, this 

is dew.

this

is the morning, seen

from Georgetown, it's quiet, the

oncoming traffic of early Washington rush

my only companion, walking

along the wall of the campus moat, 

and then across the bridge, and

down M-street, and 

down below, to

the graffiti

leaks

this

is a mirror, you

know because it ripples when

you touch, it is as temporary as the day,

and does fade, but now glimmering

along the brick of the river walk,

and then across the path, and

the water's edge,

the leaf-strewn streets,

the cobblestone

peaks

there

is a bench, it

is empty like a mourning pew

there

is a tree, it

is thin against the breaking dawn

there

is a space, it

is not meant to feel like a home

this, 

this is me, rather,

this is you, in dim

light it's often confused, you

who used to run, and I who just arrived,

this is me, rather,

this is you, and so much left to

do on borrowed time,

blindly, we cling to the

night, this,

this is me, 

rather, this 

is you