A raindrop in a cloud thinks that’s life, floating there in sagacious blue, fraternising with other raindrops and the blessing of the sun. Floating there on the ratty, tatty edge of nothing at all. Not knowing of rain. Not knowing of its imminent fall.
Then, quite suddenly, there’s swirling and grinding and the cloud’s in a hurling. The raindrop is tumbled, such swiftness of temper. Voice gruff as dolomite, thunder comes raging and all around is the big sound of tearing. Lightning’s foul stripping, clouds ripped and dripping and then the inevitable tipping.
And now truth is the way of a zipper, an arrow of downness, a splatter like bird turd. The raindrop is haggard and tattered and more just a smear on the smut of the pavement. Feeling abandoned, jettisoned, weepy, the poor little droplet is sagged out and seepy.
blossoms fall as spring’s coil stretches summer’s trees are full of gone