Wilting Paper

Do you every think about the rain?

Where has it been; it’s all recycled.

Possibly dropped off Renaissance roof tops,

streaked down the smooth surface of Ramsey’s pyramid,

caressed the faces of innumerable royals and

dynasties worth of empires.

Now, fallen from some random cloud,

that same rain drop becomes

an expanding splotch on my ledger,

claiming its happened-upon place

between the faded blue lines

on a bleached white page.

Bleeding it’s lifetime of archaic traces

into a deformed slice of tree,

which quite possibly

could have met the likes of it

centuries before

when it was just a seedling, an acorn;

budding, in a untamed moor,

with the help of a liquid hand, wretched up

above the soil, again.

Author's Note

Do you ever think about this?