I find such a thrilling serenity and
oddly nostalgic comfort
enfolded in pillow and silence.
Where the walls would normally press in all around —
suddenly an even closer sense
becomes comfort and pure silk mystery.
Alive once more in the tonic of pristine wonder
and semi random spaces of time,
filled with the novelty in actual awe.
If only the fog might hold me fast —
long just enough
anointing me in stillness and peace.
Covering me ever so in layers of soft and serene.
Suspended in midair,
drawing ionic energy from the atmosphere.
Becoming real, seen, and consciously encountered
from nowhere, evoked from nothing,
to impress upon me wonder and obscurity.
To cloy me with comfort, and to succor away my woe,
I would wait a thousand years
to be rubbed in this weather's way.
Enough that it might stick, layered as I would be,
like a pearl of great price.
One that the wise might sell all to save.
One that the world would not chaff and pester at
in its attempts to reject.
The jagged angular edges, that I am.
All hidden and covered in the thick foggy embrace.
Where I am wholly present,
free in the press and cloister, to be.
Electrified as water becomes vapor in its freezing rapture.
Taken up from limb and blade,
leaf and petal, rock and rut, in endless tracts. | JM