Dew

The sun’s sword cuts the hedge
in darkly dappled slices
helping to hide my morning paper.

The wet yard follows my feet

back inside and across the kitchen floor.

Dew has always seemed such
a curious mystery to me,
like powdered sugar
dusted over the waiting world.

A wet sylvan velvet that arrives 

during the darkened morning’s gloam,

painted in perfect tiny droplets
upon every blade of grass,
then unveiled by the rising sun.


I have always thought
its arrival should be marked
by the chime of a small clear bell.
 

One that says the margin is coming
on the busy typewriter
hammering out the story
of today.