Threshold

The fog doesn't arrive—it settles, a hand laid soft across the valley, erasing the road's certainty into blur.

I watch the pines dissolve like breath on glass, each tree becoming memory of itself, the world a watercolor left in rain.

Nothing demands to be seen here, the light is patient, diffuse, and I exist in the kindness of invisibility.

When the sun breaks through, it will remake everything— sharp edges, named shadows, the weight of consequence.

But not yet. The fog holds us both in its tender forgetting, asks us to be less certain, more alive.