Old combines dither and cough,
Cows amble vaguely into pastures,
Fences vibrate out to the end
Of their stringency, but all
This occurs beneath an opaque sea.
Last week in Manhattan a man
Walked up to me on a foggy morning
And asked for money. When I told
Him I had no change he exploded,
"Man, how do you think I feel,
Having to ask you for a hand out?"
The fog unloosens and slips
In patches up hillsides.
Hawks are first to ease off
Their perches, then small birds
Flitter out into the milky air.
Slowly things begin to connect,
School busses flicker along the berm,
Stitching together corners of fields
With houses, barns, patches of woods,
Things rise to take substance.
If I sold this house and land,
Took cash to the city and passed
Out hundred dollar bills all day
To destitute people, by evening
I could join them in the fog.
My musings~ I must admit that this poem gives me comfort, but I am nonetheless conflicted by all the material blessings that I have. Perhaps this kind of dilemma is what we humans are supposed to grapple with as part of our soul work.