Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Morning Fog


A poem dusted off from the ancient archives.  
A reflective moment while driving a country road to work, 
thinking of days past and days to come.



 
Light fog on the country fields.
Gentle sunlight
reaching through in a dance of glory.
August morning softly filtered.

If I am a child
I run in the grass,
damp with the morning’s dew,
and paradise is mine.

If I am old
I stand in fields of my solitude,
united with my creator,
taking deep breaths, cherished.

Between
these two stages of life
I fail at times to pause.
I push past empty fields,
burdening my haste.

Though,
if for just a moment
I slow my pace,
I reflect on the child past
and feel a longing
for the old man, waking.



copyright 1997 - Donald P James Jr 

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