Dew at the Edge of a Leaf.
The broader leaves collect enough to see early
by a wide spread of moonlight, and they shine!
Shine!
Who are used to turning faces to the light.
Looking up is farthest.
From here under any tree, I know it will transpire.
Leaves in their watery halos having
overhead-to-underfoot career, and thrive toward falling.
In a passage of time and water, I'm half-way.
A leaf in July?
In August?
I take no pity.
Everything green is turning brown.
It's true.
But then to everything turning brown is green.