The Raindrop

In the misty calm after the storm, inside the perfect raindrop dripping from the index finger of a lofty blue babe, one of Shakespeare's young and rose-lipp'd cherubim doing a balancing act on the temple facade, there stands Marie, lady of exquisite beauty, her face framed in fiery auburn hair, her emerald eyes as brilliant as the nearest star, her full lips a seductive invitation to the tall knight dismounting his silver steed. Sir Will plucks a golden snapdragon from her hair, takes her in his arms and places her on a bed of shamrocks. They tremble as their lips meet under the watchful cherub hovering above. Their liquid world, except in moments of gentle updraft, is, like the moon, a captive of the earth's pull. Marie and her gallant Will cling to each other in a lifelong embrace, each aware only of the other's warmth... until the droplet touches earth and evaporates in a pool of blinding light.