- Books, Literature, and Writing
One hundred drops of rain
Hardly felt nor noticed
Falling from the sky
Never reaching the ground
Underneath the scorching sun
Of a parched desert
One hundred blades of grass
In the thick Irish lawn
At Carrigaholt Castle
Stand and wait to be counted
By the finger of the icy wind
Oh how many years have those stones
Heard the strange lament
Of those same blades whistling
On the cliff so high above the sea?
One hundred shells
Scattered on an empty beach
In the middle of the night
With no footsteps to discover them
No hands to rescue them
Pounding against the shore
As waves and waves are churning
Shells, mud and water
Grinding into rocks and sand
Becoming bits and tiny pieces of that very same beach
One hundred sounds
In a jungle moist and deep
Full of life, growing in every space
Ferns and animals hanging in the air
Insects in every square
Birds of all sizes and colors
Who can sort out
Just one hundred small sounds?
One hundred grains of sand
Slipping through the narrow glass
Falling and falling
To join the thousands
Who fell before them
But these hundred grains of sand
Were watched by trillions of eyes
And billions of hearts echoed in unison
As each one fell
Seemingly in slow motion
Not a sound could be heard
for miles around
screens filled with a single image
not a dead man stirred
watching each grain roll gently down the glass
until it reached the last.
One hundred hubs, I have written on this site
It seems unfathomable because I know
what kind of work it took to write each and every one
We all pour ourselves into our writing, whether it's research, reporting, poetry, prose, stories, or just playing with rhythm and rhyme.
And 100 is just a number...
But the relationships I've formed with you all, and what we've all discovered within ourselves and about each other can't be quantified.
Namaste' and brightest blessings.