Poet, Rose Mary Boehm
She stands there, transparent and brittle.
Just another day of not quite life. She stares
at the glass on which raindrops slowly
and silently make their way into the gutter,
their molecules spanning a firm skin around each
one of their own. She earnestly follows their progress
knowing that her skin is no longer tight around her.
She has lost the stable balance of attractive
and repulsive forces between her atoms.