Tiny droplets on my window
As I look out gazing,
at the stars who light you.
(Droplets.)
Then I've forgotten,
how the sun and moon never share
the sky.
When all is cloistered
by the infinite walls each builds
Only to move forward
with wheels so round.
So I ponder.
From whence do you come from?
Others say
the rain.
From a God so dry,
to drench so sharply
a people
who refuse to even
be chilled.
But have I refused to be mild?
Others speak,
or even laugh about you
being from a wooden cask.
So simplistic a material
born of nature's bosom
raised by human hands
killed by a shoe's trample.
Only to be revived
by repetitive thirst.
But have I abandoned value?
A small voice
goes so far to whisper
that you are but
a leaf's residue.
Relegated as lifeless,
you, so clear, have given life
to the colors of autumn.
And rekindled by
the same time
that disowned you.
But have I been disloyal?
Though now as I lie
staring at the snow
a crystal sparkles.
Something
from my own eye
my own bliss
my own sorrow
my own consolation
my own mortality.
Abandoned when I must go.
Or have I refused to be constant?
Notwithstanding your origin,
I touch you,
you will never be the same.
But will I?