Morning Dew

Night fog lifted

Gentle morning dew

Dawn-kissed jewels

Sleeps lightly on summer grass

Refreshed and renewed

Awaiting a child’s playful tread

As I stepped out the other morning to head for work, I happened to take a few moments to admire the fresh coating of morning’s dew on our lawn. The way the myriad droplets were just beginning to catch the first rays of the rising sun was just… inspirational!

Few things inspire me to write poetry; I freely admit to being not too much of a poet. I dunno; bein’ an engineer and all, maybe I’m just too literal to be very good at it. But still… when I see something like this, it just makes me want to try. Hope you liked it.

[Note from the proprietor on the poem: Liked it? Hated it? Couldn’t care less? Hey, I’m not too old a dog to learn a few new tricks. If you have any critiques, comments, or suggestions – bring ‘em on!]

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It’s surprising what happens to the ol’ little gray cells when they’re completely exhausted! Over the last week or two I’ve been feverishly transcribing my Brazil trip travel notes and ran across this entry from our outgoing middle-of-the-night flight from Miami to Rio:

Saturday, November 7 – 1 am? 2 am? 3 am?

Leaning against the window, gazing sleeplessly out into the night, I contemplate the moonlit clouds below us as we fly south like a migrating bird. Tiny lights, random scatterings of glowing fairy dust, sprinkle the slumbering ground below, distinguishing hamlets and towns from silent countryside. Some of them are quite large, though of course everything is still small from this height.

I briefly wonder of the lives I’m passing over, likely never to meet or interact with. Still, the fact of their presence is enough to capture their existence here in these few words. What loves, what fears, what joys and passions are there, beneath the now slowly drawn lace curtain of cloud? Only they – and God – know. I resist the urge to wave as they slowly fade into the night behind our wings.

I read that later and wondered, did I dream it?

At this point in our trip I was pretty fogged out, vainly trying to get at least SOME sleep (we still had a long way to go, even after making Rio), though I generally cannot sleep on a plane. At least, not without a generous whack on the back of the head from a large blunt object.

Still, it sorta makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How many lives we pass, each and every day, never to meet; sorta like ships passing in the night. And yet, are those lives still inexplicably intertwined with yours? How can you tell? How would you ever know if, somehow, something you said or did affected a real live person “out there”, with whom you would otherwise have no contact, ever.

John Donne wrote, “No man is an island” quite some time ago, and yet too often I find myself living as though I was an island, y’know? It’s worth thinking about, don’cha think?

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