In the contemplative stillness, dew gathers sweet tears on velvet petals, the silent ballet of slipping time.
Curious vapors weave stories told in secret, a soft tapestry veiled against the dawning fleece of morning light.
Hear the rustling, there among the lonesome whispers, where dreams condense like optimism on a forlorn flowerette.
Suppose the history of humidity can cradle the hidden petals of our transience, dampened inspirations perpetually caught in a silver glow.
The virtue of vapor holds tantalizing connotations of histories entwined, fading echoes escaping through fine openings in the dusk-stained air.
Patterns of dreaming coalesce between photographs of luminous dew; the essence of fantasies lives, forever unsure, tangled in twilight.
Step lightly, dear wanderer; for the beauty of it lies not in grasping, but in feeling the caress of illusions, 'neath the ghosted air of the dewpoint horizon.