Surface Tension

Two raveled sleeves of care, one for each arm,
at least do establish a symmetry of my distress
that sleep may as well needle as it may knit
so that I wake as fresh as morning dew

I love the feeling that I am fresh dew
clinging to a blade of tender green grass
or the underside of leaf undisturbed
by a wandering breeze or landing bird

the jab of needling sleep or pointed dream
is a sorrow that I often do escape,
so my waking imagination makes world
of a single crystalline drop of dew

those two sleeves, ravel of care that I wear,
become glass surface tension of the dew