In the morning, before the sun is high and hot enough to burn away earth's excess water, I slide my way south, following the bends of the road, watching the curvature of the eastern horizon as the orange disk slowly ascends allowing day to ease me out of my temporary monasticism and back into a world of needs & gives.
Mornings when the fog hovers the road & ponds & puddles, I am reminded of the final stanza of Poe's early poem, "Spirits of the Dead". Before his twentieth birthday Poe penned these words:
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
These lines have always haunted me, as does this particular farm pond, sunk down below a dead end road that leads somewhere that will never be known. This morning I could not drive past without stopping to capture the haunting mist before it disappeared into its own mysteriousness.
Gorgeous photographs. They reminded me of the Matisse quote, "Derive happiness in oneself from a good day's work, from illuminating the fog that surrounds us."
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