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:
It's nice to see a well-turned sonnet. Good work.
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.
For all the mist, the imagery is quite vivid:)
I love the scene, the quietness.
Beautiful words.
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