It Comes To Me

IT COMES TO ME What would you have me do with these my tears, shall I gather them together in a tiny bottle and keep them on a chain close to my heart, or shall I scatter them over the dying autumn flowers, shall I walk with them over the meadow and let the wind carry them away or let them fall to the earth with your ashes. . . . for I have seen you there amidst the trembling leaves on the sycamore trees, in the crystal pearls on the tips of marsh grasses, and when the meadow-lark rises on the breeze I hear you whispering my name in the flutter of its wings, . . . then it comes to me and to my understanding that you are not gone, you are everywhere. Tom McFerran.