My dreams are the dew on the
morning grass and the sound of the drops
‘neath the leaping grasshopper.
It seems the cold darkness of a swallowed
night blessed the condensation of what deeply
matters; that which shines bold against the
thousand thrashing insects. I wish I could
say thank you, say anything, really, but the
sunshine is blossoming over my closed eyelids
and all I know is warmth.