Under a crying tree
The little drops roll down the side,
roll to the bottom of a leaf’s slide,
too the edge of a needed fall,
“I’m coming” to the next leaf they call.
With a gravitational pull they’re set free,
dropping drops to the next leaf they see.
Over and over as the ground nears,
I sit watching the skies tears,
play their race to a falls end,
into a puddle they eventually blend.
The little drops fall on every side,
some use the leaves to slow their ride,
some avoid a slowed down pace,
they just want to win the race.
The sky often cries tears of pain,
I will sit and watch the drops again.
Count the drops that drip to a stop,
wonder how many are still to drop,
wonder how big the puddle will get,
how long the tree will stay wet.
How many races my eyes will see,
Sitting under a crying tree.