We called it scotch mist
Lightly falling rain
On dimlit days
Pewtered skies leaking wisps of fog
Dampening forest symphonies
Chillwinds crawl puckeringly slow
Up arms
Over shoulders
Settling with icethuds
Beneath my clothes
Screaming me into now
Cathartic
Cleansing
Redeeming
Chill winds and autumn mists
Scour me clean
Remove heldfast past
Start again
Become supplicant to skies
Searching for benediction
Hope
Completion
Seeking purification
Without ceremony
Intervention not required
My ear
Close enough to ground
David Trudel © 2012
