Storm Never Happened

Dew on the edge of dawn,
weaving a net of unseen memories;
what never happened reflects in delicate drops,
a tempest that remains outside the window.
The leaves tremble without a breeze, memories of lightning unborn,
the promised rain slips into the Earth’s breath,
every blade of grass holds what did not come to be.
When the day ascends, the dew becomes a page,
what never was remains written in luminous silence;
the memory, soaked, shines among the absences.