A voice of substance,
to pierce gray cirrus clouds,
a disobedient angel
dismissed by God
for carnal acts,
'twas morning then
and cold on earth.
He sat within the shade
of ancient junipers
and dreamed.
When, silently
a dropp of silver dew
bequeathed an urgent stir
and, like a butterfly,
she came.
It was the welcome nectar
of her hot desire.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dew-3/
