Under a crying tree

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.