Het is weekend. Of course it is hard when drops fall. Trembling with fear they hang heavy, clammer on the branch, swell and slide – the weight pulls them down, how they cling. Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided, hard to feel the deep pulling and calling, yet sit there and just quiver – hard to want to stay and to want to fall. Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond help, the tree’s buds burst as if in jubilation, then, when fear no longer exists, the branch’s drops tumble in a shimmer, forgetting that they were afraid of the new, forgetting that they were fearful of the journey – feeling for a second their greatest security, resting in the trust that creates the world. Prettig weekend. En be nice.