Drips of Dew

Long ago and far away,

atop a mountain,

Promises were made.


Ideal, naive selves present.

Words without witness

fall too easily

to the ground.


Do they splash or pop?

Or land with great thud?


The words slowly drip, like

the morning dew sinks

into the forever forest floor.


One day woken, the forest overgrown.

Not with the words that planted it,

but the lost intentions

of past pain sounds.


Hold my hand,

but let me be.

None of this is fair.


Hold my hand,

and walk away.

Love yourself deeply.

Breath in the crisp fresh air.



– Jill Blake

Jill Blake is a curious human whose poetry infuses nature, gritty emotions and empowered vantage points to life’s struggles. She has worked as a nationally recognized youth-focused community organizer, a high school student services center director, health educator and mindfulness coach. She is currently on sabbatical. Her work can be found in Tiny Seed Literary Journal and Caustic Frolic.

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