Why is there a tear drop
hanging on the clothes line
after the blue jeans, gray skirt
and two little t-shirts?
Is it the same one I saw
lurking behind a smile?
The one that wouldn’t allow me to go away
without another futile try.

You. who have found trusting love
enough to fill the ocean’s hole.
Why is there a wreath of drops.
not a garland round your soul?
You see not me, an unhappy wraith
who flits through your inner shadows
consumed by the burning pyres of trust
that lick your joys while you rest.

Is not sorrow a bucket of faith
given so that we can fill it to the brim
and what overflows from our pitcher,
we can always drink it in?

©Reena Prasad 8th October 2012


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