fog'n'mist

The recent references to fog
left me dank of spirit,
befuddled of mind,
and blind unto myself --
and my 'fell out' reprise contained
that I would never walk in fog again.

This is choice, for me
of a spiritual bent rather than climatic,
and I embrace, prance and sommersault
in all profoundness of nature ...
yet, 'tis true I avoid such enclosed space
in story, poem or on a river bank.

In a quick search of past creation sins
I found but two references to 'fog'
of any note or pretense:

"Beautiful is the Fog
as it envelopes, hides and comforts;
holding as I 'collect' soft mem'ries
the Night and Days of my Life..."

"Sprigs of greenery and berry-chains
hung limp and sad as the freezing fog
breathed in and out of the narrow streets."

Yet a search for 'mist' produced hundreds of hits,
and I rejoiced in the focused implication,
knowing that for some the two are seen the same.
Alas, many hope filled recollections
of faint scribbling and thought bashing
were naught but
MIST-akes and MIST-ress and MIST-rust,
but not necessarily in that
order.

A more guarded exploration,
now filled with trepidation,
brought my quickly and adroitly
to visions of rebirth
and nothing more (oops)

I also know that 'dancing in the rain'
would be found as repeat refrain
and that 'fog' must be relegated
to a 'nothingness' in between --
that within this void of sensation
I am stripped of all creation
and caressing of my soul.

So, I will walk with you into the fog,
or choose to crawl about in fumbled
exploration of awe and wonder
(but not both at the same time),
and willing stand in Tully fog,
naked below the neck,
laughing at the world --

but walk there? Nevermore.

..............................................................................

that you might understand -- a sampling of 'mist images'

"Consider the choice to blend the lively mist
and fading Autumn blush..."

"A gentle breeze carries forth
the cedar whisper and the aspen's quake,
into the mists of yesterday
that disperse this new day's perfume.
Diamond dew drops do distill
and join the twinkling of the brook,
and birth strong song of meadowlark
and glint of fluttered fairy wings."

"Would that I could now find such divine innocence,
and cycle anew from tinkling stream of birthing,
to dreaming mist and laughing clouds of morning.
Oh, then to be drawn to the soul of Mother Earth.
Chose – it is your life and song of vict’ry to sing.
Plunging, frantic deluge to nurture new Spring life,
or silver fairie stars of tumbling snow bound hope
that will melt and finger through stones and sandy ridge
in a cent’ry long quest to live as one with me?"

faucon