Dew Falling
By Belinda Cannon

Awakened by morning
and thirst- and thoughts
of robins and rufous-sided-towhees,
the black band
that separates them.
Half awake I wonder
and run to the window,
to see in the first edge of this morning,
if the early bird’s meal is hearty.
He runs, the towhee, in short bursts
in my back yard,
his beak is empty,
and I search my pockets
for that worm, he must be rewarded
for believing the myth,
I find only crumbs,
and tissue, dried from yesterday’s tears.
The towhee doesn’t seem disappointed
morning dew still falling
he waits to greet his breakfast.

But, what of the man
who has no such hope,
who’s passions sleep
among the wilting begonias
shriveled, half bloomed,
thirsty.
A man who’s dreams
are frozen, like Lot’s wife,
salty, thick with regret,
unable to blink the eyes clean.

First breath of morning,
grant that I may show up,
for breakfast -
catch me on the wings of new,
and I shall be reborn
a million times,
the dew still falling.

Thanks for the contribution, Belinda!