At first I want to rail against the fog
(as though it will make a difference)
and cry “My God! My God! Why can’t I see my way clearly?!”
. . . until I stop long enough to realize
that I can see:
the blown-away seed of a dandelion at my feet,
the leaves on the lowest maple branch overhead,
the silhouetted street sign at the sidewalk’s corner.
Then, more wonderfully!, I notice the details of the fog itself:
near-snowy white haze,
an internal luminescence,
evasive shadows at the edge of sight,
. . . and You!
You: not just present with me through the fog,
but the essence of the fog as well:
the mystery
the questions
the wandering
the aura of light.
And suddenly the fog is not a wall but my atmosphere for traveling,
not my enemy but my companion for the journey,
and You have shown me a new way
for seeing clearly.