Fog Speaks

The fog dissolves the boundary between seeing and being seen—you stand in the photograph you are, blurred at the edges, essential as breath before it leaves the body.

A hill erases itself. The oak tree becomes an argument for patience, a dark certainty holding ground against the white forgetting.

We are all learning to disappear into what we love, to let ourselves be unmade and remade by weather, by the soft persistence of water becoming air.

The lighthouse beam cuts through without conviction, a question mark written on cloud. Everything is both lost and found here, in this merciful gray between.