The Fog of Life
My cabin sits high upon the mountainside.
The rivers valley below both broad and wide;
An arboreal mist shrouds the land below;
As cold air rolls in, the white canopy grows;
Filling the valley up ever so slowly;
Climbing the mountainside thick wet foliage;
Mother Nature’s own scheme for hiding the pines;
Acting in accordance with old Father Time;
The old goat tethered to a hundred-year oak;
Standing somewhere a mere ten feet below me;
His bell clanging, yet not one hair can I see;
Hidden in thick clouds as if he were cloaked;
I stretched out my arms, my hands I could see;
I look down at the ground, my feet still with me;
Fog can’t erase the deeds of my hands and feet;
Nothing can hide me from my own knows and toes.
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