These late summer mornings
come with their heavy formings of dew,
a soaking of shoes and cuffs,
heavy drenchings of blade and stem,
a coating so dense it doesn’t seem possible
that the drops can hold to the surface.
Below the wet hills,
layers of mist weave through the stillness
of these quiet dawnings,
their thin gray hanging above
the dark forms of cattle and fences,
glimpses of stone bluff creek.
It is hard to imagine that the meek
will see beauty beyond this,
a glory above that of a full harvest moon
set in a slate blue sky,
way above the limbs of locust and birch,
that Day when they shall inherit the earth.