I love the dew. I love the moisture, how it clings to the leaves, makes the green darker, the barks of the trees richer, the grass shimmer, how it makes the trails yield ever so slightly and appear darker than they are, dark like the color of the true earth.
There are those who say that God is in the minutia. On days when I climb a dew-soaked path, where the morning air still retains the chill of the night as a lover parted retains the scent of his other half, where the odd ray of sunlight ambles into a single drop of water and sets it alight like a baby star, those are the days where I feel most connected to God. Where I can inhale the most diminutive droplets of dew, the same dew that might have burst into that same embryonic sun, I feel like I can inhale Brahman in all Its glory. I feel as if the dew will burrow down through my windpipe and snake its way into my lungs, to mingle with my blood and unite me for the briefest second with the Ultimate Reality. The one little droplet inside of me, is a juncture of an infinite number of leylines that connect me to everyone and everything.
I feel what makes the dew appeal to me most is its embrace. How it embraces the pine trees and rocks of the cliff and the grass and the thornbushes with no discrimination. Perhaps, if I brave the chill of the night, and lie as still as possible beneath the old pines and the stars, will I be able to embrace the dew in my slumber and open my eyes in the morning to its sweet smile and glistening eyes?

Copyright The_Hangman, 2006