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.