A fog descends and settles
in my weary skull:
a fog, stubbornly thick and unresolved.
These mysteries loom ahead,
many more behind, yet unsolved.
Transcendence crashes into immanence
and a fog of debris is left behind,
mingling carelessly in a mass undefined.
Only the smoke clears
There are words and meanings yet to parse,
and songs to compose, yet unsung.
There is a play to write, and though it be a farce,
the pen is in my hand, the line on my tongue.
The words and lines and songs collide;
the fog baffles my fingers and confuses my singers,
and leaves me struggling to decide.
Still, the smoke clears
The smoke singes my palate,
and lingers in my lungs,
With one deep breath I inhale
the fog, and then exhale,
a cedar residue clinging to my tongue.
I admire the taste: strange and potent;
deep and mysterious; hard to describe.
Then I watch as the smoke ascends upward
to green trees brightened by the Sun,
which is setting somewhere out of sight,
but, haply, has blessed the trees and me with light,
before a long descent into the shadows.
Warmth and heat come as a fire glows
amidst all the bedlam and tears.
At last, the fog disintegrates, then disappears.
Now I know the vanity of vanities
that the Teacher once professed.
I used to think him cynical,
indeed some might call him clinical:
too morose, neurotic, and depressed.
Now, I find him a friend, a realist,
and above all -- an honest man.
At least he faced the world as it is,
and that takes courage and fear.
He looked into the fog with a stern face
he did not turn and run, but embraced.
I have a feeling, were he here,
he would breathe in the smoke with me,
cry, then watch the fog disappear.
You are on earth, he would say,
and the fog will linger ever,
but breathe it in when it descends
and you will find the going better.