The drip was constant, a metronome measuring out time.
Bleary eyed, spirit bruised from another all-night argument
She had sought solace in the forest and the rain.

Perched on a rock, surrounded by the dichotomy of nature - Stability and chaos
Indiscriminate raindrops creating the rhythmic beading of water
She reflected upon her own duality

The steady beat of water had etched a small rivulet
Upon which a poplar seed was now travelling
On a journey to create new life in a barren place.

She wondered if all "constants" do the same
Create paths that can be used for the good

The thought brought with it a measure of comfort.