Mist in the Making

In a snippet of epochal glaciation, tainted with sudden zealous jolt,

granite is schismed and is pried out of inflicted boulder,

mercilessly hurtles its life force into the froth, noisome rock by broken rock.

A kingdom of stone-conglomerate shatters;

in faint slowness, like the growth of an ancient pine;

even more lethargic, as an under-ocean current; more deliberate

yet,

as if it were a geographical range plunging over a tectonic dragonian backbone.

Breaking out of the earth, stretching all the way,

a slithery vertebration that divides a view into two,

with a softness of a silk painting soaked in late afternoon light.

Unlike that, the essence of sand remains unchanged,

no matter what gale and current push the sincere flow of

particles in anguished movement together.

The motion is ceaseless, the kinetic orthodox force unabated

both stone and dust, keeps altering shape, still

seem to be un-changed and monolithic,

(visual follies and restitutions of a weak mind)

to any with the weight of the poor weak curse of coming into the

world out of nowhere and disappearing into nothing;

to those who are bookended by birth and death.

In the gleaming faint humming of undercurrent, incessantly, timelessly, churning, butting

making no distinction to pebble or rock,

the water wave grinds its sparking force upon stone and sand.

It teases the waterline, quickly retreats, in fast hesitation.

Water spray attacks the crag, pulverizing granite into powerful granules and

separating the flimsy from the heavy, the brittle from the compact.

Pebble and splintered subdued rock are helping along,

peeling off the surface brittleness and opening up fragile gaps

where tendrils of void were before.

Up and down, the flow and ebb and thunder carry on

the frothing uproarious force stripping molecule from lump.

The ocean, times two a turning of the sun around,

a high point of attack does its miracle.

How can one fathom from the remote cyclical

dance of the water, the crag, the pebble?

An orchestration of salty radiant flow.

The darkness and light take turns, wrestling with the mystery of darkness, one

after the one after the other,

low and high temperatures condense h2o and humidity into mist.

As fog bows and glides, subdued

and impermanent.

Hovering over a boulder, surfing slightly above the waves,

the place where memory denies the privilege of permanence:

an old tombstones collection, grey and dab

collecting abandoned existences and forgotten lives,

a premonition that is encapsulated into the

thin creases on the face of its cemetery-keeper,

of a simple creature that loves the mist and loves the trees.

The tombstones recite narratives from a place of light that became darkness.

The mist fondles the extended, exposed roots.

Pushes skin against thorns.

Palliates the dim-eyed and the slow-paced.

The mist feeds the path, upper and higher,

down a narrow gate, where mnemosyne and forgetfulness converge

to coalesce into the mystery of mist.

[The end]