Morning Dew

Backs against wet grass,

Soaked with warm

Morning dew.

There’s still so much left to do.

He was never the romantic type,

Never the one to want

Something poetic out of life.

He’s too busy,

A brain that runs on espresso

And the fear of falling asleep.

Never relaxed.

As his breathing changes pace,

His hands twitch,

And his eyes flutter.

I always knew

He was made of butterflies.

Katelin Rowe, Grade 12

An Excerpt from the Poetry Collection, "The Lavender Dies in Winter"

Creative Writing Major