A Jot of Clay


Through the torpor from some unseen cloud,
a bead of rain slipped past my lips
and down my throat.
Sensing my thirst, this sojourner arrives
from some other place, some other time.
Love for this one bead I sip, and no other do I note.

I ponder its purpose as my own design, and
my senses say some breath divine
must have stirred recollection in this granule of dust,
that so carefully culled water droplets
to quench my thirst for truth,
from swallowing such a small amount of trust.

Blessed, I thought, that jot of clay
beneath the feet of man
to be seen by God and chosen,
dried and lifted.
How humble the drop of rain that learns to love
its own reflection in the ocean.

An ennui of steady rain
weeps silent reminiscence
that tastes of wine and smells
of incense.
Your return to earth is
a drop of certainty in a deluge of doubt.
It is the friend with a jug of wine, an intoxicated heart,
from which I drink up love for my journey through the drought.

From the infinite,
this one ray of water
finds a channel winding toward the sea of my heart.
I, once a dry and lonely jot of clay,
that drank from the heavens and dwelled with dew,
once more found weight and fell away.

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