Fog and Memory

Fog settles like a sigh, erasing the ridge line, softening what we built.

In whiteness, there is a kind of mercy— the world becomes suggestion, each step an act of faith, moving through clouds we cannot name.

Memory moves the same way, dissolving edges between what happened and what we needed to happen, until both taste the same on the tongue.

The valley holds its breath. Somewhere below, a river still insists on its particular path, invisible, honest, alone.