Window Of Time: Early Morning. A Poem

Like a sash it opens just enough

to let the mist saunter down and in.

 

This morning breaks and the valley

receives its due covering.

 

A hovering of this evanescent spirit,

spread in and though the crowd.

 

Diverse fog splitters rising toward

the heavens, trees reaching for the sky.

 

I wish I were 200 feet tall.

I would kick the midget clouds

 

and brush my open palms

along the crown of oaks.

 

I would lay in the meadow

and make fog angels.

 

I would summon as much childhood

imagination as I could and play a while.

 

 

And I wonder if God would be sitting on a bench, watching, smiling at the childlike freedom.

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