January 24th

“You have kept count of my tossings;
     put my tears in your bottle.
     Are they not in your record?” Psalm 56:8

even now—
in ice-covered communities,
down hallways where fatigue whispers,
at airports where goodbyes
wound the air, you count our
twisting and turning.
even now—
as the world breaks so loudly,
as breaking news is stitched from grief,
as pain learns new vocabularies,
you keep track of our moans.
and yet, you notice
that mother steadying her breath
to lullaby frightened children,
that stranger who clears winter’s
debris off sidewalks of neighbors,
hope needing crutches
but refusing to stop marching.
you gather up the tears
of cities confronting bullies,
of children unafraid to ask
adult-sized questions,
of white-haired veterans
watching the history of hate
being repeated without question
and not one drop evaporates
without you noticing.
it is as if heaven’s streets
were lined with little glass bottles,
a name written on each one,
proof of pain which was seen
and never dismissed as imagination.
so, let our tears fall where they may
for they are already on their way home.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman