Indiana Oregon Morning

In the cool mist of morning coming softly on,

I sit outside, rocking slowly ~

My old chair fits me close

like a favorite sweater;

bundled in blankets I breathe

in the fresher air of Fall,

grateful after the summer's choke

for the gentle misty after-rain within;

I doze rocking slow.

Our patio overlooks a meadow

that falls away and into

a distant line of trees that guard and stand firm

before the East Fork of the White River

just beyond;

the fog formed after the rain comes,

it curls around and across my meadow's edge

and rolls in swift white waves,

clinging and coming. 

My half-closed eyes deceive,

even my breath tricks me,

as the treeline recedes

taken by the mist

and the meadow is swallowed by the fog

ever so tenderly, until

all that remains ~ 

~ and I dare not breathe

or open my eyes

fearing to break the magic spell

cast by Oregon memories ~ 

~  All that remains

of the shrouded trees is

the Ghost of Haystack Rock looming

rising and sighing in my Indiana meadow-ocean

that faintly glows before me;

O I dare not breathe

or allow consciousness

lest my vision fades,

as soft soft mists kiss me

and sweet sweet air envelopes me,

lacking only the sea-salt scent

and that haunting taste ~ 

Somewhere in my brain,

there is admission

and regret.  

But still . . .

 

© ACG

19 September 2013