Lament For A Raindrop

on an early morning walk

a raindrop the size of a palm,

in the drizzle of a morning shower,

fell into the loving hands of mi esposa,

and was carried home to become

part of our hearts delight

here in the village cats and dogs

own the streets, the lucky ones,

on rooftops, behind walls, and doors

live in a less dangerous environment,

for the cobblestone streets, while having a

beauty of their own, are pitted and cratered;

a home where only the hardy survive.

Herein lies the quandary

for when you hold a pet in your heart,

as you must because that is who you are,

they become vulnerable, less fearful

from the love you give them—

the human touch has a way of

compromising the nature of the beast.

My neighbor’s dogs, who are not confined

to a loving space, and roam the street,

have killed two of our critters, who wandered

in curiosity onto the cobblestones.

What does one do across the great divide,

where life is but a simple “I’m sorry?”

Sadness is not just a human touch,

for everything today,

the poinsettias in the garden—

here to celebrate the season,

the clouds shrouding the lake;

have a pale about them.

Everything today,

feels a little less joyful

raindrops having turned to teardrops.

—John Thomas Dodds—