on some days water would fall down
in heavy buckets; ravaging the hungry earth
stricken— a wave of drought.
the tiny specks of life swimming along
the expanse of the universe would
scatter to have a taste of the heavens
and quench the need of being human.
some would build infrastructures
as great as lunar craters
to catch every miniscule drop
that comes from the sky,
only to keep it in their possession,
never to see another ray of light.
those who have an abundance
seem to have a hard time giving—
hands formed into fists uncaring.
what can be gripped, cannot be taken away.
in this water, there will be power.
what do the others do then?
in a morbid sense of camaraderie,
those who have their hands open, cupped,
palms facing the heavens,
can funnel grace into the palms
of another.
maybe this is where I will believe,
despite the flashes of greed and envy,
the kingdom of a god
will always belong to the poor.
the poorest have the most to give.
