skykissed, the earth seems shy
muffled by a ragged net of condensed cloud
everything goes quiet
earlier it burned off
now it rolls in off the straits
leeching colours and shortening views
each drop holding a cemetery scent of early dawn
when spirits slide sideways into the melt
each drop a stitch in the shroud
this fog sleepwalks through empty rooms
while shadows punch slivers of distraction
into softsilvered rivers
each drift a tangible intangible
never quite in reach
never quite vanishing
floating wordlessly
with all the effort of nothing
drafting tailwinds of an idea
David Trudel © 2013
