The Edge of the Fog

I drove home through heavy fog.

The world ended fifty meters ahead.

Everything was white, indistinct, gone.

The headlights carved narrow paths in the dark.

But then — almost home —

the veil dissolved.

As if someone had swept a hand across the landscape

and said: Here. Here you must see.

Around my home, clarity lay

like an oval mirror after a shower,

where the blow dryer draws a hole in the mist

and a face suddenly appears.

So it was.

In the middle of the fog

there was a place where everything came forward.

My place.

Even an hour later, walking the dog,

the air was still clear.

We walked through a world that wanted to be seen.

And I saw it.

And perhaps it saw me.

There was perfect silence.

The full moon shone down into the chilly night.

But even the moon, from now on, can only wane.

Perhaps that was what I was meant to see:

That I can only be in this state here.

That I must step into the fog,

so I may return bearing new light —

like the moon,

which must diminish to become whole again.