How do we make sense of our suffering? World of Dew grapples with this question by embracing impermanence—the death of a loved one, the transmutation of an old belief, the adoption of a new culture. Moving from the tide pools of Maine to the streets of Hyderabad, Lindsay Stuart Hill entwines grief and awe, beauty and violence, truth and delusion. These poems form a scrapbook of missing girls, clothes drying on a line, and lingering romances. This is the world of dew—a gorgeous and fragile cosmos where we know nothing lasts, and yet we remain—questioning, dreaming, hoping. “Hill’s poems ring with a lyrical clarity that invites us to embrace the mysteries of everyday life. These are poems to live in and to get lost in, and, if you are patient and lucky, to never quite find your way out of. Gentle, honest, and unstintingly truthful, this is a beautiful and life-affirming book.” -- Ronald Wallace, judge, Brittingham Prize in Poetry “A tender and meditative collection, exploring joy, grief, loss, and wonder in sharp-eyed poems filled with grace. One can feel the poet’s wise gaze fall over these pages, lighting the natural landscape of Hill’s mind in all its enlightened awe.” -- Safiya Sinclair “In this remarkable collection, traveling can be an outward journey, an inner one, and sometimes both at the same time. The best poems here nourish the reader in deeply original ways. Reading them is like drinking the purest water from a hidden spring.” -- Elizabeth Spires “What a marvelous debut! The sacred openness of each poem reveals a mind that thinks and feels with equal lucidity.” -- Gregory Orr Lindsay Stuart Hill grew up in New Hampshire and lives in Minnesota. Her poems have appeared in publications such as Poetry , The Kenyon Review , Ploughshares , The Southern Review , and Blackbird . “We ended our tour on the bottom floor, in a large and empty hall, where there was a table bearing a tray of pumpkin muffins we weren’t allowed to eat. I imagined tearing one open, saw steam rising from the inside, and thought of how quickly a slip of butter would melt into the cake of it. We never had butter out for eating at home. It was always kept in the freezer, preserved until it was needed for baking. In that moment, I held the vanishing smear of it in my mind, and the imagined taste against the spices of the muffin was like the light from a match struck in the dark.” —Excerpt from “The Bahá’í School”