God of Dew

Tell me how to taste
that first rush of God
like the high of a lightning
bolt, to peer up at the sky
and know: the sky looks back.
This thick book and only
one story seems to matter
today; it’s morning, and before
Gideon turns, the wool could be wet
and it could be dry. Schrodinger
has nothing on this unturned
sheep, like a hardcover book,
no cracks in its spine. Yet.
Tomorrow, whether damp or
dry, you will tell me there is no
God-of-dew, God-of-lamb pelt,
or unopened tome. Which sounds,
to me, like tomb. But can you tell me
the taste on the warrior’s lips
at dawn? When he shook out
the skin and found an answer.