Morning Fog

Thick fog at dawn
softens the rising sun into
a pale yellow white glow.
As the new day erases the dark
he is content to embrace
the morning symphony of bird calls
as prescriptive medicine
against the unrelenting pain.
Dark, shadow, fog,
all of these obscure
both what is true, and what is false,
or, he thinks, do they mask the content
with blurring simplicity,
blinding the eye by softening clarity and form
into a mix of indistinct shape and shadow?
And, he asks, what is pain
but a fog over the soul?
Dawn, again, alone,
another vigil awaiting the first rays of sunshine
to come shooting through the trees,
but today the heavy fog has muted the sun’s
triumphant ascendance.
Is peace unreachable, he wonders,
surrendering to his torment.
The fog that blankets his morning world
cannot soften the harsh details in his vision.
Still, the birds trill busily
and in this one thing only
is he content.

Author's note: Another jigsaw effort. Words from my daughter Megan: Thick Blinding Unreachable Dark Embrace Symphony False Content Shooting Pain.