Fog hovers in like a thought,
Quieter than quiet;
The other side of sound,
And waits to envelope you.
It holds a finger to its lips, reminding all others of their
Stations, to wait, hushed in the thickets
While you stand out in the meadow
Surrounded by beads of dew and the
Fanciest, most elaborate webs in the taller grass.
These webs won't catch prey done up so,
But that's not their task this morning.
They are part of this easy cushion of
Cool, settled calm, drawing you back to yourself.
Fog waits; gives you all the time you need.
It makes even your own limbs seem alien as you
Feel the deepness of you inside your chest.
Hear your breath, and note the shape of its journey in,
And out of your tireless lungs;
Rich and full and easy; privy to all of your
Glide and climb, absolutely loyal.
And with the study of your breath comes the
Tremendousness of the beating of your heart;
Here, in fog, in this cushion, in this meadow,
With shoulders dropped back you can open and
Tether the beats together with your utter amazement;
One giant beat follows another, and you're sure the
Whole world can hear it,
But fog keeps the sound near, just for you;
You are the centre,
Governed by none here in this meadow,
But softly moved to realize the intensity and loft of yourself,
Surrounded as you are by this floating margin in time.
You can feel, I know you can feel, that it loves you,
In its quiet and measure,
It loves you so dearly.
How could it not?