Poetry
Dew
by Michael JohnsonKindles in the cool grass,
and the night builds hoarfrost
like small cities of glass.
Dawn will spill across
these scattered
shadows leaves of light.
A hummingbird
will sip a bluebell flute
of dew and go on burning.
Grass blade, feather blur,
light, everything —
we are all a kind of fire.
Michael Johnson works in a vineyard in Okanagan Falls, Ontario. His work has appeared in Queen's Quarterly, The Fiddlehead, Mid-American Review and The Pedestal Magazine. His poems have also appeared in the Best American and Best Canadian poetry series.
