the Dew Moon
The dew will fail to pool...
Catching Light, becoming Air.
A daytime dream. Briefly held.
Wisped away.
Like every day.
The forest of grass
received a starshower of overnight starlight
which pooled in places in the fields.
Silken hammocks. Spider-stitched.
For the briefest low-light
momentaries, as a foggéd breath might,
they seem to give me cause to think
that
they may have caught the Moonlight.
Though, in time, the sod and sun
will drink the dew
and the day’s demands will leave trodden
the patches in the paddocks.
Of silver. Of sun. Of moon. Of stars.
Of magical
pools.
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2025
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