What Is Dew?

His little blonde head leans over my lap.
One hand clutches his milk, while
the other rubs sprigs of yarn, pale and fuzzy.
His eyes follow the sailors' moves as they travel
through a shimmering night and catch fish
made of ancient religions and fire.

He wants to know, what is dew?

How can i tell him that it is she who now sits with him,
murmuring soft words in his ear?
That it is i who can be seen in early morning, shining
and quiet on the green, green grass,
but gone
by noon,
utterly disappeared?

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod can never tell him
that i am the one clinging to the vine.

I am unseen, but faithful.