.
It softens the edges
of tree and crow,
blunts our point of view.
We can turn a corner
in the fog
and never know.
See the old man
in the mist?
He is a shaman
shifting our perspective
with his white breath.
He knows that fog
is a giant, downy feather
that blesses our fever,
then suspends us
between all that ever was
and all that ever can be
in the alpha-omega soup
of possibility.
.
© 2013, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(A re-post from four years ago. )