The Suspended Arc of Morning Dew

On the green edge of a stretched leaf,
where the morning settles, light and quiet,
a drop hangs suspended, mass held in air,
to its fragile, crystalline secret.
It is not a tear, nor pure gem,
but a brief mirror, woven by nature.

In its crystal, an upside-down sky,
a golden ray, an immeasurable green;
the whole surroundings gathered and dissolved,
a microscopic time dilated.
Every flake of air, an intangible breath,
a cold echo, fleeting yet stable.

It is the last instant, before the leap,
where every form vibrates and then fades away;
a brief bow, an infinitesimal sway,
the water bends, then the knot unwinds.
An imperceptible, slow separation,
in its silent sliding, without intention.