All day the dew assembles on the leaf
like diamond rings protected on a hand
and scatters all across, on blades beneath
on webs you cannot see if you should stand.
My curious mind told my hand to shake
the leaves and watch the crystals glide and sink.
I thought it strange the boundaries did not break;
the leaves would hold the dew, but would not drink.
Should we presume the scene was full of pride,
or blame the dawn for giving all her dew?
Does credit go to webs that humbly hide?
I think that maybe each of these is true.
The fault lies not in leaves so fully dressed;
the Giver gives to find our gift expressed.
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