You remind me of fresh dew on the grass,
In the morning when it’s cold,
And still dark but the sun is ebbing,
Just below the horizon.
In the sort of calm way that a heart,
Can open,
I wake up to you like snowy mornings,
Mild frost and a chill in the air,
Just enough to make me feel,
A little more alive than usual.
Something crisp, and delicate,
Begs beyond the surface.
Is it the siren’s call?
I have no concrete idea of what this poem is about, but I know exactly what I meant. Somehow.
