––April 12, 2012

Small beads of Crystal drip off my hat brim

Gently sway, forward, backward, then descend,

Cascade, fall, dissipate, and are no more. It is a

Strange thing for this to be, that water heaven

Sent can become part of dryness, wherein no

Moisture resided before. How simply those

Little beads swayed. How lovely the gentle

Aroma of fresh rain on dry earth.

Flower blossoms open heavenward catch the

Little droplets, the tiny crystals, the miniscule

Moisture, like pitchers in the hands of green

Robed damsels who dance only when the winds

Beckon so. Brightly colored pitchers of vibrant

Yellow gold, which is sampled by all stately

Insects, the bee, the butterfly, and of avian array

The humming bird, and what other chance feathered

Flyer would so choose to suction fine delights.

Yet soon, too soon the little purities of Angels hands

Cease descending, and again only grey sky and quiet lark

Fill the air in absence of gentle trickle where rain once ruled.

A day to be remembered when my hat dripped with tiny crystals

Placed there by the hands of loving Goddesses yet unknown to me.