The tower has vanished in the fog;
The boat is hidden in moon-shadow;
The perfect peach field cannot be found.
I'm shut in by the cold rain of Spring.
I hear the cuckoo's call at sunset.
Apricot blossoms sent by my friends
In letters received through the post
Cause an assault by countless memories.
A lonely river rounds the mountain,
But why should it flow toward my lost world?
cool winter day:
clouds form thickly over
the hot springs.
the foggy valley looks like a depthless painting through fall foliage.
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
Stationed in East Anglia,
I remember layered fog,
fog so thick one couldn't
see past the hood's end,
but, given a slight rise,
one could see all the way
down the runway -- as if
it was a cloudless full moon eve.
As one might expect of an airbase,
(having been built around a flat runway)
there wasn't much topography.
But sometimes life is like that:
a tiny rise in perspective
allows one to see the world clearly,
but a minor dip puts one in a
soup of unfathomability.
fog rolls through, devouring then revealing a quaint town.
a cluster of trees
stands out against the gray:
the last unvanished
Tiger Riding for Beginners 