It has been raining and

there are drops of water hanging

from the handles of the wheelbarrow.

 

There are ten on one handle

and ten on the other.

 

Some are bulbous and full

while others are mere blisters.

 

They remind me of that picture

of men eating lunch balanced

on a girder high above New York.

 

They are attached to existence

by the slightest if threads

 

and yet they have so much beauty,

catching the light of the brightening sky,

 

shimmering in the breeze,

in union with all things.

 

And then I catch sight of this page

reflected in the window I look through.

 

The light is such that I am not there,

only my page, the raindrops, and the world.