Fog lies thick over sodden ground —
a curtain of winter whites —
drawn close around the barren trees,
muffling would-be sound and sight
of a gray January morning.
The year is new. The light yet dim.
Starlings fly in figure eight
amidst the sunken clouds,
foreboding well a coming weight,
still hidden hopes to bring.
A haze of sorts congests the heart,
not yet awake to hear the call.
Heavy clouds fill hollow wells, ’til full,
in a sullen sleep that buries all,
sifting word and thought and dream.
A sudden wind, a lifted weight –
mysterious – this lightened load, unbidden.
The murky mists begin to drift,
light burns clear that lifeless hold, forgiven,
as burning off old winter’s dross.
Until, at last, the Sun breaks through.