Morning Mist

Ever have trouble finding things? I do. I hope it's just a phase I'm going through, but I've recently found that ... no matter what it is ... it always seems to be in a secret hiding place.

Then ... surprise! ... there it is, right under my nose. Well, my first search of the day didn't turn out that way this morning.

When I bounded out of bed ... not really, but I like the sound of that phrase ... anyway, at the beginning of the day I was thinking about this whole new month, beginning today, and how I might spend each of the days in it (that's about as long-range as my planning gets).

I thought of one of my little poems, "Beginnings" ... and it seemed to me that it would be the perfect piece for welcoming October.

I searched everywhere ... beginning with where it should be ... and then all the places it shouldn't be. No luck. Not even a whiff of it. I'm convinced at this point that not even a bloodhound could have found it.

So ... I've fallen back on one of the poems from my first collection ... Chance of Rain ... which reminds me ... Hollyhocks ... my second collection ... is winding down its pre-publication sales, so you have until Wednesday to save two bucks by ordering it NOW from Finishing Line Press (end of commercial).

Meanwhile, today's poem:

MORNING MIST

Invisible morning mist explores my face

like cotton candy melting at the touch,

reviving memories of that sweet softness

as droplets seek my eyes and slip inside

unseen. But there in the swirling distance,

there against the trees where it bivouacs,

ready to invade in ever growing numbers,

there against a sagging barn, there against

the dim, straining headlights of a silent,

bouncing car peering back at me, and here,

high above me in the drenched, dripping

leaves of a hickory giving what shelter

it can, the mist makes itself visible.

Such workings must be meant to conceal,

but what? The past which clings to me

like the smell of smoke? Or the future,

lost somewhere in the effervescing spell

that embraces these hills, their valleys?

Knowing mystical mist steals the vapors

of my breath and returns only a silence

that swarms about like tiny ghostly gnats

touching my ears and dancing on ahead,

ever ahead, seeming to point the way

I should take as I labor back up the hill.

©

2003

(from my first collection, Chance of Rain)

***

Today's word: gnats (as in "Gnats!" ... I suppose)

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

First of all, my apologies, Magran ... and to others who may have noted my lapse in keeping up my end of the conversation here ... I'm trying to catch up ... I really am ... and I hope, someday, to be all caught up. Meanwhile, back to this poem. I can imagine a poem not wanting to turn the reader loose ... I've had that happen to me ... but I never imagined that one of my poems would have that effect on a reader. I see this one mainly as just a descriptive piece of writing, triggered by the effect fog was having on me during one of my walks. Then I stirred in a bit of the past, and the poem was off and running. I hope you liked it. I know I enjoyed pulling it all together.