dawn’s dew

21 Jun

i want to live

somewhere damp.

i love the rain.

it’s beautiful.

it’s melancholy.

it’s romantic.

the tangle of

spring greens,

laced with the tawny stalks of last year’s buds,

trod upon on by

the muddy sunrise,

grey lashes of the peeking dawn

sweeping over the shed

quietly.

the hint of moss,

snuggling against the earthy rocks.

purple

kissing

the skyline

blushing

into dusty rose

petals of

soft light,

crawling over the dewy hills.

this morning

fills me with

sweet ruefulness,

wistful thoughts

of my homes in Japan

and Washington,

reminders of lines of Mary Oliver,

quietly whispering, evoked

by the damp watercolor tones,

the suggestion of soft, moist earth

beneath the resting leaves.

quiet. a gentle morning.

delusions of Mary Godwin Shelley and her

rainy, foggy, mistful days.

the wet damp

is like a tender cloak,

shrouding my backyard in comfort,

when i can watch safely from inside,

wrapped

snugly

in a warm blanket,

admiring the early-morning poem

through my window.

there is nothing quite like

rain

in the high desert.

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