Sudden trickle, her whimsical drizzle;
with morning dew, it dampens little.
'Least the spirit isn't frigid; which harms,
now it thaws but its a smile that disarms.
In deliquesce, she swiftly swivels and swerves,
such is the inaction that it has no verve;
as words are best confined to sedate love,
for in sentences, they only further disturb.
The stupor is momentary; for in insensibility,
sleeps her quiet concern for slight sympathy;
'cause succinct rationale at times, can assist;
as when dew evaporates, it leaves behind mist.
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