A moment to reflect
One Drop
(An Autobiography)
A single drop � one drop of rain,
Stares at me through frosted pane,
And before it fled, with me remained,
Its desperate tale to tell.
Banishment from billowing brume,
Sentenced to terrestrial tomb,
Clothed in God and preaching doom,
Their decree: its hell.
Spinning, circling, spiraling down,
Fearful of the rising ground,
Fate uncertain all around,
Could it survive the fall?
Or would it be as they had said,
That beyond the veil � all was dead.
The journey sure. to the light it sped,
To finally know it all.
But impact brought neither pain nor death,
But enlightenment on angel�s breathe,
The truth was finally whispered then,
�A higher purpose here.�
From lofty peak at fountainhead,
Where babbling brook and stream are wed,
And oceans deepest hunger fed,
Begins with heaven�s tear.
Its power can quench the wooded wild,
And desert�s barren womb revile,
And then, while holding nursing child,
Wash clean a squalid sphere.
Then as the dawn paints night to day,
From deep inside the moistened clay
Through thankful arms of rose bouquet,
It rises to the sun.
There, bathed in dawn�s glow, warmed by love,
Hovering peacefully above,
Pondering the wonder of,
A drop of rain � just one.
Kurt Bestor (2005)
(An Autobiography)
A single drop � one drop of rain,
Stares at me through frosted pane,
And before it fled, with me remained,
Its desperate tale to tell.
Banishment from billowing brume,
Sentenced to terrestrial tomb,
Clothed in God and preaching doom,
Their decree: its hell.
Spinning, circling, spiraling down,
Fearful of the rising ground,
Fate uncertain all around,
Could it survive the fall?
Or would it be as they had said,
That beyond the veil � all was dead.
The journey sure. to the light it sped,
To finally know it all.
But impact brought neither pain nor death,
But enlightenment on angel�s breathe,
The truth was finally whispered then,
�A higher purpose here.�
From lofty peak at fountainhead,
Where babbling brook and stream are wed,
And oceans deepest hunger fed,
Begins with heaven�s tear.
Its power can quench the wooded wild,
And desert�s barren womb revile,
And then, while holding nursing child,
Wash clean a squalid sphere.
Then as the dawn paints night to day,
From deep inside the moistened clay
Through thankful arms of rose bouquet,
It rises to the sun.
There, bathed in dawn�s glow, warmed by love,
Hovering peacefully above,
Pondering the wonder of,
A drop of rain � just one.
Kurt Bestor (2005)