Tomorrow is a stranger on this far Wednesday night.
A faint fickle dew drop rests as an oracle on fated lawns
For neighbors to open their doors and test their toes in the rain of the grass
And bathe in dawn as she forces the dew to take refuge in their desirous pores,
Proving that tomorrow is no stranger, no, nor a guest.
Tomorrow is me,
As intimate as the spider’s web and as complex as the human’s.
To fret for tomorrow’s richness is to doubt the dew on the grass,
And doubting the dew on the grass
Hinders neighbors from opening their doors.