Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Misty Morning

by Ed Hack

It's all quite still in mist--the distant pines,
full-grown and dark, the bare, thin dying tree,
the purplish winter brush en masse, a line
behind the still-wet grass. The day's decree
is gray, again, light shrouded in a veil
spring trees glow through, banked fires that seem to purr
through misted air. White dogwoods float as pale
as ghosts; around them nothing wants to stir.
This silence is as deep as Time, a gap
between that doesn't need a single thing.
This is a land for which there is no map,
and what it gives is only what you bring.
Two pair of geese fly low, fly side-by-side,
honk twice, are gone. Their echoes quickly die.

3 comments:

  1. It's nice to see a well-turned sonnet. Good work.

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  2. In addition to the beautiful imagery bathed in the mist, these two lines linger for me:
    This is a land for which there is no map, /
    and what it gives is only what you bring.
    What I take is this: we cannot see clearly through "mist," and things are hazy; it's what we bring--how we interpret and appreciate that helps give meaning to mystery. The sonnet itself resonates with silences and quiet. Lovely. Thanks, Ed.

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  3. For all the mist, the imagery is quite vivid:)
    I love the scene, the quietness.
    Beautiful words.

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