The Dew

The sweet,
the trembling,
the dew that
slides down
the curved
sensuous
blade of
grass, a tear
that rolls
down a smooth
glass cheek
so fragile, so
strong, the
coursing
water
caressing the
river banks
the solid walls
of soil, packed
and firm, unyielding
but only the
gentle touch of
the river can
gradually shape it
until it dies
amid the oneiric
mists, the droplets
that flow, carried
by the breeze
until they
reach the
bright grass
the sweet
the trembling
the dew