The blackening gray cloud cap sits gently
on the head of the mountain
and shrouds its shoulders with its breath.
Infinitesimal droplets finally condense to mist
- Congealed Sacred Tears -
fall upon the needles of the alpine apron
of the Peaks.
Then, gently do they slide off boughs,
crashing down to the fronds of the bracken
just before they shatter on the ground -
again fragments of His Breath.
They flow into one
enveloping the whole in a mantle of Silver Life.
sinking and flowing through crevices
around bits of molten moments,
at last they arrive.
Slipping through silten remains,
they lend a softness to their journey
and finally occupy that pregnant synapse,
laying their gifts at the tips of the rhizomes.
And slowly then they sacrifice
their aggregated integrity,
their dipole wholeness,
as they break apart.
In Miguel Angelo fashion,
the Tip of The Finger of The Father
touches soul into life.