The Heavy Fog

Today is a day of the heavy fog -
An insurmountable mist that hunkers
Down around the edges of the lake

Seeping into all of the spaces
Between the mountains,

Between the trees -
Every nook and cranny holding
All the sullen and weighted
Moisture of dreamy and
Ancient remembrance.

Row after row
Of unbridled upheaval -

What we call mountains -

Are hidden and then revealed
As the air of lazy solitude
Dampens the already moist ground
In it's rising and falling again and again.

You have to sit here long
Enough to see the veiling nature of the mist;
To see it as a dragon's breath -

In and out of the beast
Just over that ridge or behind that
Steady ambling slope.  It is
That time that takes the science
Out of what your eyes behold
And drops what your head thinks it knows
Directly into the
Sullen and weighted feeling
In the heart.

My days have felt a fog
Of ancient remembrance such
As weaves itself among these mountains
Among these hills.

Look,
The sun is breaking through.

Ciao!

tjm+

These Hollers

There is a vapor -
a mist - that hangs all
pulled out and wispy
just above the hollers
in these mountains.

It is grey
against the mottled and
purpling slopes of
the Smokies. If
there were not
so many trees
it would be easy
to mistake this place
for the Highlands.

Layer after layer
of mountains call
you back to this soil,
this earth

a place of razor
sharp crenalations
and swooping slopes,
not a bute in sight.

This place,
this foggy earthed
corner of the world
calls you to stand by
her diamond lakes
and breathe the calm
into your moist and
beating body.

Place yourself in
those mountains
and them in you
and listen for
the low glide honking
of the morning geese
and the strains of joy
from the pinkening strands
of predawn sunrise.

It is here.
Morning has found
it's way to these hollers
once again.

Ciao!

TJM+

photo from this site

Early Morning Risings

So much
of the fanfare
and drama in life
is an early
morning rising
of mist on the lake.

Before ascending to
the height of the leaves
it is gone -

mixed and blended
invisibly with the air
all around.

Whisps of moisture,
our lives are subtle
and transitory - coming
and going like the
dried chaff and blades
of grass in the field,
like the icicles and snow-drifts
in the frozen soil.

Watching and
not attaching gives
us the space to see
and open to the
impermanence of the
moment.  Rising,
so much is gone
before the campers
arise from their sleeping.

http://outstanding.wordpress.com/category/topics/water/