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.

1 Comment on “My Dreams are the Dew

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