Through The Mists

Before the first bird singing in the dawn
cicadas twang steady and bright high-pitched 
hymns portend what I reach for on this lawn.
Tuning out the archontic highway’s twitch

drone-machines and simply attend.  Vast sky
though not one star the cloud cover can pierce.
Last night’s bright half moon corralled, subdued, shy.
Through soft wet grass I spin, head craned, so fierce

my need to place myself.  I am unchanged.
Celestial navigation’s naught.  Changed
is the new narrative.  Here’s taut suspense 
I am a stone in a glut of stillness 

waiting for the sky to unfurl.  Mistress 
of fog I move, delight in this process. 
Unseen blanketing reveals creative
flow.  Imagination sets me free.  Give

praise past all the warnings blaring from screens.
Slow, majestic in the day’s brightening 
on and on the cicadas sing, muted
insistent through this close gloom, diluted

in the damp air.  Finally chickadee’s
sweet trills call in the sun repeatedly.
And now at last the light reveals the air
clammy and wet just as the signs prepared

as if the clouds descend while the sun slides
sloshing through the mists of mystery, guides
perspective from false history.  Unstuck 
from the morass where true believers truck.

Inspired by: Glut, Mistress and Portend.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

4 thoughts on “Through The Mists”

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