Rolling through high-heeled streets,
Shimmering in a photo finish.
Small drops with big ideas,
Ya make that steal, or merely cop a feel?
Too much cotton for mirrors on the flipside of down,
But soaking floats color.
So dragging the horizon like an ephemeral plea,
She teases air from smog.
Small drops, what’s the big idea?
She prays for din to break silence,
Before fancying a prey on thunder.
Pattering in gardens of brick and cities of grass,
She won’t ride lightening to wit,
Why take a bolt, when Sun owns color?