Dewdrops

I am fine mist,
Dispersed through the air,

Free to linger
After each previous iteration of my life
Demanded form of me.

Early on,
My mist dripped steadily through a faucet,
Always punctual and predictable.

My mist trickled through the playground mulch,
Forming sawdusty puddles by the thresholds.
That’s where I spent my adolescence.

Then there were the years of the creek.
A forgotten trickle through the conserved patches of trees,
Sprinkled throughout a manicured university campus.

A good one came after that.
Flash flood.
Powerful destruction.

The stagnant, murky water that followed
Took eons to drain
And rotted all the houses away.

I tried, then, to be a woman.
Bound by flesh and tenderness and desire.
Blood is too thick for me, I’ve decided.

In a sharp and quick exhale,
I sublimed,
Back to my natural state.

It’s been so long,
I’d forgotten how refreshing it feels
To be mist.

I am the familiar sensation
Of a cool, moist, dewy
Spring morning.

I am mist, awaiting a blade of grass.
I feel the surface tension growing.
Soon, I will be pulled
Into a dewdrop.

For now,
though,
I am just mist.