In Praise of the Fog

bare tree between roadA face watches me: it is motionless, but its eyes flicker like flames courted by the wind. Every color is silent, fading, falling asleep, and the air melts the contours, creates unity, and tears down the forking path.

Mist is the essence I seek when I sink into thoughts. Not the light, not the sun, but only faint fuzzy glows bumping into each other in the war of reality. What better gateway to the perception of the deep? Even a stream pauses, swaying up and down; at times, it even seems to climb up the mountain as weary droplets settle on the lower leaves.

Please don’t give me the light. I don’t want it. Please grant me the mist, with its courtesan-like motions, enveloping silence, and song that intoxicates like wine and dissolves so that too-biting hands may never encircle its ethereal flanks.

A face watches me: it is motionless, but its eyes shine like silvery winter branches mottled with iridescent light motions.

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Photo by Annie Spratt

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