I need the
clearest nectar,
or a new flower,
blossoming and
so vibrant in
her color,
that I will wonder
if it is all
a trick of light.
Take me to a lush valley,
with a mossy hill.
There sleep the
ancient pines,
growing like geysers,
crying their dewy-tears,
who each cling tightly
at the points
of green needles,
and await the moment
they can shed their fears
and fall through infinity,
to the earth, below.
They will
share the sorrows
of the old wheel,
still turning,
with the seeds
of a new world,
born of the old,
still brightly burning,
indiscernibly lit,
by the day,
or by these
all-consuming fires.
Yet, they yearn
to live, amidst
all of this
suffering.
Beware the grasp
of gravity,
far-extending,
into this new world.
No matter your intention,
gravity’s pull
will demand
that your tears
fall before the wheel
is done spinning.
I want those things
before I am called,
but I fear
that I’m meant to grip
at the edge
of some rusted eave
until I sink
into the mud,
or flow away
through a filthy
gutter.
Does a drop ever matter at all?
©️ 2020.