Fall From Grace
I’ve watched the raindrops
fall on the window pane;
every drop smashing hard against the glass
then succumbing to a slow and painful death.
I wonder if the cloud played God,
banishing the bejeweled children of thunder
robbing them of their youth
and sending each drop down on Earth,
to be drowned in red mud.
I wonder if the raindrops know.
If they see how it ends,
murdered by the dirt and filth;
failing to escape gravity’s reach.
I have also inhaled the sweet smell of Earth after the first rain.
A smell that no man can animate,
no matter how hard he tries.
Because it is only born when something pure
falls from grace.