The Mist

Hermit Thrush says I should get up with the sun

There are teachers you just don’t argue with

Wandering down to the shore, the lake is gone.

There’s that arrogance.

If I can’t see it, it must not exist

Shrouded in mist.

A mist as ephemeral as trust

Thick as willful ignorance.

Two hours I sit

Waiting for the sun and wind to reveal the far shore

The gentle breeze from the waving hands of children looking for home

The undying light of that home calling them back.

The patient, lapping waves of grief and truth.

The trees on the far shore have seen it all

Yet another mist falls from their shoulders

If I just closed my eyes again, they’d be gone

Imagine any shore I wanted

Just not this one

A perfect weave of timeless wisdom

Eyes open

The thrush sings again