The morning is like a Monet painting. The fog
has blurred the edges of trees and roads,
the colors of grass and trees and sky.
The leaves are shrinking as well and the sun
shines through those new and growing gaps,
those leaves who could not wait for the first
frost of fall falling like scouts bringing news
of what’s ahead. And the sacred silence of Sunday
morning is everywhere and will burn off like the fog
in a while leaving only memory and the sense
I may have missed something even as I was
taking the morning in. And somehow that sense
creates a longing for what I see and feel to be
utterly seen and felt, known, caught in that phrase,
“In the fullness of time.” Those moments all have
and the wonder that fills that time, the desire
its passing creates. The way the heart and soul
and mind are never the same afterward, the impossibility
to create a memory like this morning
as it passes by in that sense that forever
has just found a way to be present for a moment.
-Byron Hoot
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