I found a sonnet I composed exactly 10 years ago today during another misty Spring morning. It seemed fitting for the day.
Yes, this is mist and tongues my neck
by Gideon Burton
Yes, this is mist, and tongues my neck,
the cool and wettened tissues of my eyes,
and this the sunlight, this the muted trek
of morning. Even all the rain that tries
to shoulder hills with noisy coiling clouds
subsides, impossibly reduced to mist,
less amiable now. The sun grows loud
along the steaming sidewalks. Buds, like fists,
push hard against the breaking ground, content
to wait for pollens in the coming noon.
The early sparrows pause, their singing spent,
and they will turn to other matters soon.
Remembering the mist as though a friend
had called again, some idle time to spend.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - net_efekt