There is poetry there in the gleaming diamonds of the morning. The water has seemingly appeared overnight and clings to each green leaf, solitary drops reflecting a whole world within.
There is science here too, no less beautiful in a different kind of way. The organization, the cause, the effect. It is not magic or a miracle, yet it remains magical and miraculous, the way all the parts play their role every time the curtain goes up and the lights come on.
And what of memory? Each of us can look back on a time when the morning dew connected us to life and time and all that. When I was six my mother would chase me across the grass in a game we would play now and then. A lifetime later I still run and hope she catches me, and one day perhaps she will.
If the dew were aware of itself and us and all these gifts, I wonder if it would be filled with a sense of pride. I think no, ego and vanity are the coin of our realm and no other. Instead I believe the morning dew simply smiles and waits for the warming sun, content in the knowledge of being part of the poetry, the science and the memories; to be out there on the emerald fields watching the world come and go. Pride enough in that.
whoisfenton 