Of Glass and Raindrops

         Glass.  Fragile and rigid and thin, smooth and empty and cold.  Bright, colorless figures that twist and bend the light, distorting, contorting the world into an alien menagerie that confuses the eye.  Circus mirrors for what lies beyond, Bergeron lenses poised ever so carefully on the mantelpiece, ever so ready to fall with the musical resonance of frailty in motion and ring like crystal with the cold voice of wind’s mortal whisper to the floor.



         Like raindrops it is our lives to fall.  Constantly, inevitably, inescapably from sky to ground we go.  Gently drift we on the wind from here to there and back again but gone we are by dawn’s first light, for drift we all to that good night.  Raindrops.  Picture it in your mind, the summer rain.  All those millions of perfect, glassy tears gliding out of the inky clouds and soaring on the wind just for a moment, just a moment.  Down through the humid air like Icarus on ruined wings they plunge, spirits unbound, hurtling toward the thirsty earth the drought of march to pierce to the root.  Listen to it, the sound of a thousand shattering lives, the music of inevitability beating a soft tattoo for a moment, another, another.  Listen to the sound of raindrops.  Falling.  And you will know what God hears.