Morning Dew Elizabeth Jenkins I see the sun shining off the morning dew, like droplets of heaven thrown to the ground. Carelessly, yet perfect. Assimilating the nature of Earth’s surface and its inhabitants. Its hills and valleys, its roses and thorns. I wait for the sun to shine over the rolling hills. Illuminating the crevices in which dark and dauntless things lie, but there is no need to be scared of the dark. Because though it is different it is still the same. It waits. Watching. But just like us it sees the green tendrils of Earth reaching up to the sky, drowning in gaieties. Absorbing the sunlight, taking in everything good, good and bad. It too esteems the life that springs from rivers and forests and canyons and deserts. So they dwell in the dark corners. Hiding from their own impertinence of what they see around them. But no one can ignore that blatant beauty which nature beholds. Everyone sees the sun shining off the morning dew, and the reaching grass. Everyone yearns to soak in the rays of sun, shining over the grassy hills.
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