Abandoned

This drags out a big and could stand to be tightened. I am open to any suggestions you might have. Should I also work on the imagery? I bow before your critique.
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Abandoned:

I smile when the first drops of rain fall welcome on my face.
So cold and refreshing, how can I but kneel in the newly formed puddles?

It is Tuesday and the ground is soft and springy with your water
the birds gurgle out their song, letting the drops roll off their feathers.

It is Wednesday and the puddles reach my knees, I hear of the songs
of worms that drowned and foxes that grow weary of swimming.

It is Thursday and I cling to the top of the tallest pine, tired,
panting. Is anything left alive besides the bugs that cling to me?

It is Friday, be blessed to the end of the week, but the sounds
of suffocating are roiling in my ears, and the sloshing only gets louder.

It is Saturday, the earth is quiet but for the steady chime of rain drops in the ocean
that is now the earth, bloated with water, ready to drift away.

It is Sunday. I swim for many hours until I reach the bottom step of the sky.
I place one foot on the firm stair and rise out of the water and climb.

I climb for many hours, as many hours as I swam. As many years
of Sundays as today holds. The water rushes out of my clothes for many years.

I pant as I climb. I sing the song of the dead caterpillars and bees,
I mourn for the wolves and the grass and the flowers. I look below.

The sun has already begun to sizzle, as its toes reach the water below,
I turn away and climb. How many years will I be climbing your sodden stairs?

Little chimes of water flowing gently down the steps below tell me
that soon there will be nothing but smooth marble, slippery, under me.

I stop. I am only 400 years from the top. Today is still Sunday. I am
800 years from the bottom. The sun grows stronger, and steps dryer.

My feet are raw from the dry stones steps. My muscles feel like stone
that may never return to clay. I pant. And watch the steady stream.

One little trail of water falls to hit the water 1200 years below me.
One little trail of water comes from the window of the upper room.

I push open the marble door; it swishes across the marble floor.
Miniature olive trees grow in pots around the room. The chairs are big.

I make my way across the room. I feel dwarfed by the size
of the table legs that reach my chin. I spot an open window.

My feet will carry me no further. I climbed for seven Sundays.
I climbed for 1200 years. I have only been here three days.

Three days opening this door. Three days crossing this room.
And now I cannot move. I stand, horrified, before the window.

The table is flush with the open window, the shutters are flung wide;
lying on the oaken surface it a large earthenware jug. It lies on its side.