Teardrop

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Born of mankind's melancholy moments

a tiny teardrop, 

trembling, trails His face

to drip and ripple,

resounding, reaching others;

resides in pools of purest, peaceful place.


Captured, caught upon a wild wind, 

whistling into a whirling stream

of teardrop trickles, trudging onward,

forced to flow, to forever flee; 

finds freedom a fleeting dream.


Waits to watch those dashed upon damp moss stones.

Some sadly sit 'til sun shall dry

as others flirt too freely with false shorelines, 

soon to sand, silently sink in soil, 

they fade, 

then die.


Yet onward, on rushes, unrelenting teardrop,

trickling, twisting, 

turning towards the massive mainstream sea

of mingling, man managing;

avoiding shadowed shorelines and 

shimmering, sun sparkled 

wave caps,

 unleashed and free.


Until the Master spies the unstirred spring, 

stoops and scoops

           into His hand. 

He holds His heartfelt tear.

So quick to quench 

the quiet thirst of a tired, 

tried traveler.


He and His tear find oneness here.


~P.S. Colley~

  c. 1989

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