Morning Mist

An early morning autumn drive leads down country roads, splitting farmers’ fields freshly harvested. A fog hangs heavy in the air, tangible and sweet. The silent morning is further insulated by this condensation. As the sun ascends on the horizon, an orange glow is cast across the golden pastures. Then, drifting gradually over a recently reaped cornfield, a thicker cloud-like fog is discernible. Two thin wisps of thick mist, pure white and substantial. They appear as ghostly fingers, reaching out for touch. They swell and become like a veil, pulled over the surface of the day made so tranquil.

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Warm, Loved.

With face pointed to the sky I bask, enjoying the luxurious warmth of the sun on my golden skin. It’s as if the heat gets underneath; penetrating my core and warming me from the inside-out. My heartbeat slows, my breathing relaxes, my muscles calm. I create moveable artwork behind closed eyes; a myriad of vibrant colours dancing on the backs of my eyelids. There is no sound but the crashing of waves onto the expanse of fine sand; no voices can be heard, not even in the distance. In this moment, I am unaffected by any circumstance, notion or person. This solitude is healing. I am still, confident, and bare. I am untouched by the world. In this perfect state I am exposed yet loved, accepted and whole. I can but dream that this peace and splendor would last forever.