The drops of last night’s rain cling to the bench,
Hanging on to a fear of letting go.
Ever since they fell from the sky, they clench
To the only rail that they ever knew,
Beading into an individual
Bubble that appears like all of the rest.
They know that if they lose their grip and fall
Originality found in the nest
Will be lost upon reaching the puddle.
All those little things that made them distinct
Will be gone, gathered within the huddle,
When to the bench, he is no longer linked.
To continue to clutch on or to fall,
The choice that determines the fate of all.
John Collings 