John Martin Petriccione

Drip drops down,
from luscious foliage abiding green,
watching the drops mingle in-between,
done drown unto the stream.
A river rollin’ now,
comes a flowin’ round,
with vortices formin’ found,
trickling to a dream.
Lest they be swirlin’ how,
steady mixin’ twirlin’,
the many into one single sound,
but what else could this mean?
Each and every drop in many foreseen?
Collected together, yet protected forever with the essence of Thee.
How else could it be?