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 https://www.amazon.com/stores/Donald-P.-James-Jr./author