When Dew Drops Weep

Sunday, January 11, 2026
8:00 a.m.

Mist casts a damp cloak over the village.

Stilled dew drops on tree branches shine.
And they weep.

I fix my eyes and heart on the ordinary.
Beauty is in simplicity.
Gentle acts, quiet gestures adorn another.
Palms open offer love.

Tragedy stalks us.
A mother is taken; three children spill ruby tears.

Candles are lit.
What took so long to create the glow?
To invoke the ritual?
To recognize that light defeats darkness?

Ah, the dew drops still shine—weeping.
A sober, quiet country sits in the hush between chaos.

Listen.

It is a holy ache.