The air is moist
And humid heavy

But fresh
With new rain,

Still dampening down
Still weighing

Each leaf droopy,
Each bended stalk

Gravity bound.
Some flower heads

Are dew drunk
Lively, plush

And open eyed,
As perfect

As purity
In droplet spheres

Expressed
Upon the petals body.

But some are dashed
To autumnal fall:

The rose
Shaggy on its swollen hip,

Curling
And fading tears

Scattered in the falling.
It’s as if

The night could
Reach beyond

It’s dark boundary:
Wet finger tips

Invading the day
Or morning, at least:

Its species
Conveyed in fluid:

The slugs
The snails

Putting down
Their silver trails

For the sun’s
Open touch

And glitter
In awakening.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015