The Architecture of Dew

The silver geometry of the weaver stretches between the garden’s ribs, a radial map of hunger and light caught in the throat of the morning.

Each bead of rain is a heavy lens, magnifying the green world's blur, turning the silk into a chain of glass that sags with the weight of its own clarity.

By noon, the blueprint will dissolve, shrunk to a ghost of salt and string, leaving only the memory of an edge where the air was briefly held in place.