By the Waters of Nepenthe

Rainfall in summer hits leaves on the water;
They shiver at the delicate kiss of the wind,
Sweet as a broken-skinned plum in the winter,
Enveloped in hoar-frost like splashed skim milk.
 
The rain on the river falls cold amid ripples;
Drops from an icepick on the walls of my heart,
Dripping like the shadows of January icicles;
Cracked silvered mirrors refracting my soul.
 
The rain falls as leaves in the heart of December,
Melancholy Mercury crying to Earth,
A story I feel, but can never remember. . . 
Ah, what do they matter, these rags of the past?

But the rain keeps on dripping like dandelion wine,
Casting rings of spun glass on the dark leaden deep;
They shatter like thought on the rocks of Time,
Recalling, dissolving. . . then fading to gray.
 
Should I drink?