The fog is unusually clear this morning,
You can see close at hand,
Every detail. A path clear
But only for so far. After that,
all is grey, a soft slate. Impenetrable.
You cannot see the paths.
You cannot see the direction they take.
You cannot see the destination.
Not one for waiting, you choose. You walk.
Even with no idea what is ahead,
About this poem.
This morning at breakfast, my wife, who knows me as well as a good wife should, commented that I currently seem to lack a “big goal”. She is right. For some reason I am moving ahead, doing things, accomplishing things, strangely uncertain where to apply my fullest energy. If you have known me long, you will know just how unusual that is for me.
It will come. It always does. Till then….. I walk. I do. Fog be damned.
The picture was taken in the next town over, Pawlet, Vt.