The mist spread, like a parent’s warning,
upon the grass; grass so wet
it grasped the feet as they stepped, making the mind -
in the silence of that morning – a god
upon the stuff of dreams made real.
The mist caught thoughts and turned them
inside to out to right to left or worse, shrunk them,
like a twisty’s packet placed in the oven, so everything,
rabbits down the hole.
for the sun to act as a sponge
and soak it up: I waited too,
for that distant giver
so that the world might fall back into place.