Drop to Bottom

The drop of water on my windshield
takes the path of least resistance
all the way down the glass slope.
I watch it leaving drops behind,
bits of itself scooped away
as it makes its way to rest.
Will there be any left?
Is there enough water in that one drop
to reach the bottom of the windshield?
I often think not. But then,
sometimes, I think, maybe,
I'll make it to the end.

Dream

Soft skin grazes, touches,
kisses the curves
so gently it almost misses
but my electric skin knows,
feels yours. Shocks of
the-best-thing-ever
course through my body,
my being, followed by waves of
this-can't-be-real
that stroke my soul.
I shudder. A good dream,
a great dream, don't wake me.
Please, God, let me sleep, if
this is what my dreams are made of.