The Stretched Skin of the Drop

Suspended, the minuscule architecture
Of a world not yet fallen,
It stretches within itself, closed in a fissure
Of air and gravity, a sealed breath.
It is pure geometry, a curve that resists,
A fragile lens, an immobile instant.

On its skin, iridescent veil,
The light trembles, shatters the reflection
Of skies or a meadow, in a silent present.
Every connection it has with the world is a miracle,
A stretched soul, a brief hesitation.

It carries no name, nor has ancient memory,
Yet it weaves an ordered grace,
An invisible force that binds it
To its destiny, fixed and secret.
Before it yields or disperses lightly,
It is a silent song that moves the heart.