Before it was day

I climbed to meet the sun

half way

on the side of a mountain.

A high cool pond

poured down over rocks

to a slow dreamy valley

singing of new born clouds.

Facing the warm reflections

on the quiet sky

I bowed and kissed the dew

on the young grass.

But soon I felt guilty.

What had I done?

What is the dew

on young grass?