With nothing to see and nowhere to be, With no one to be and nowhere to go: Empty, like the meaning of the spring dew Dissipating, hundreds of pieces, scattered Individual voids waiting upon a cue To become what they embody, fettered. A field of unquiet quietness, occasionally interrupted by a single, awful tone. What existence is this exigence? Unknowable, unspeakable, unending: Pain is what it is.
The dew knows not why it's stepped on, Ending its momentary nature Only to crop up tomorrow and be none The foot becoming again its berater. And so it goes until the summer, with the cruel months behind it. The skull becomes and beckons Back into nihil. But there's too many things to see, places to be Too much to be and too many places to go For to be one is to be many and the dew tires.
the flowers spread their limbs basking in the sunlit glow as the refreshing morning dew caresses their curved leaves. their vivid petals flirt with the colorful sunbirds, pulling them closer and closer to the sweet, sticky pollen, which rains all over the soil as more flowers begin to wake up.
a church bell rings out in the distant fog that hangs over our morning today to and fro the birds chirp with songs more intricate than the ear can hear dew droplets rest on the ends of spruce leaves their sprigs, shaken, from the rain weather greeted it and whether storms lie in wait tomorrow only time can tell
i reach out and touch golden - golden, not blonde - locks of hair, spiralled into ringlets with small dewdrops (the size of baby mouse eyes) scattered atop and it kind of resembles honeysuckle after the lightest drizzle
Sometimes, in the early hours of December It drizzles, just a little bit The dew remembers And does not complain As it knows how moody is the rain The dew quietly goes down the green grass Into the soft brown mud, its resting place Early next morning It glistens and gives out a smile As it loves the sunshine