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.

Scarlet Robe Creations