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deadhead Jun 3
frozen dew stands still
as if time had not since passed
from early morning
a late piece on spring :)
TD May 14
tenderly turned petals
drooping lips and dew glanced
seem to draw a searching finger
to its fairness caressed in relief

moisture on a naked shoulder
pale and sparkling in the light
its purity unblemished
evokes a yearning much the same
Oculi Apr 17
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.
Written earlier in April. Inspired by T.S. Eliot.
LC Apr 17
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.
#escapril day 16!
Nicole Apr 13
Fragrant blossoms imbue
in a distillation of technicolor vision
across the dampened meadow,
awakening it from a winter repose.

Dew-tipped grass lightly bends
as a chilled breath swirls in the air.
Verdant landscape hues cover
faraway shadowed rolling hilltops.

A crispness in the surrounding signals
an embraced dusting of vapors,
following a light cloudburst above:
A sprinkling refresh for growth.

Spring has sprung.
Man Mar 28
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
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
deadhead Mar 15
i noticed her tears
my first thought was of dew drops
the second was of rain
The moon was full,
The rose had bloomed,

The stars were twinkling,
Her scars were glistening;

The dew dripped down,
Her tears trickled down..

The Sun had set,
Her grief left her wet

She lay down alone,
The horizon was her own.

With no interruption, on the side,
She could scream out, in the void….
She could scream out in the void.

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
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