Mist moves by Without a whisper Encompassing my domain As I try to reconcile My new existence
Rural coastline Desired By visitors as Locals watch The comings and goings
Am I coming, am I going? Am I fully here? Educator, I dip daily into mired troubles, Get to know ragged edges, and murky centers
Daily I drop Into the arms of a community, Close knit generations, Embracing; I’m needed
And look 56 days in this new life and I’ve abandoned addictions – snacking, Netflix, endlessly fixing my ancestry tree instead I move wood, learn about regenerating land, tear down old structures fix things, plan spaces
ocean breezes breathe into me, morning treks take me through panoramas of windswept trees, wild coves, new day’s sun cast on sea cliffs
and misty fingers heal crevices of my soul
On rare occasions, I write a poem. It happens when I sense that doing so will get at something, clarify a deeper meaning, convey an esoteric idea, discover more than has come to my mind through mere thought. I always experience satisfaction, somewhere between heart and mind and soul.
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I love the poem. I like the fingers of fog healing you, as fog is often used as a metaphor to convey unpleasant feelings.
Thank you, Cristina! That’s an interesting thought. I imagine mist and fog are enemies to those who value control and clarity more than mystery and complexity, things revealing themselves, unfolding. I love moving mist as a manifestation of air and wind. Like the rustling of leaves in a tree gives evidence of a breeze, so moving mist in front of dark trees reveals the wind.