Weary of Blindness

The fog fades in and out
giving you vision, here and there,
a brief vision

of what might lie ahead,
a fleeting view of the horizon,
and then, it is gone

and the world once again
is a mystery, the path,
obscured

and you are driving,
tentative and unsure,
weary of blindness

yearning for bright sunshine
and trees, clear on the ridges.
You yearn

for a road so clear
you can drive with abandon,
gleeful and reckless,

sure of yourself
and the road ahead,
sure

not of the destination,
but certain
of the light.

About this poem

I have lived in uncertainty on so many fronts these past few years. I live there still. So when the fog rolled in yesterday morning (when I took this picture, through the windshield of my trusty old Isuzu Trooper.), this poem came to mind.