pavé

I dreamt last night that I awoke to see a beautiful bit of driftwood, covered in the most perfect dew, lit by the first shaft of morning light, pale and pure.  No morning dew was ever this perfect, so like diamond spheres. 

But as my eyes adjusted, the driftwood was in fact my hand: I was covered head to toe in this beautiful dew.  I glistened like a jewel.  And so did you: I got up and met, it seemed, everyone I had ever known, and we each shone in our shrouds of perfect dew, lit by the low, dawn light.  I especially saw two beloved and elderly relations, who sparkled as brightly as any.  We were all barefoot on an expanse of soft mauve sand, like a shore with no ocean in sight.  I asked one of you if the dew would evaporate and was told that no, this dew was mineral oil and would last. 

I woke again, truly this time, and showered for work, for a moment transfixed by the streams of water coming from the showerhead, sparkling under the light of a 60 watt bulb.

It was a vision of heaven, more nearly than any I ever dreamt.