Fog
is on thick this morning, like pale blue syrup on the forest, each tree like
black tracery in milky stained glass.
The forest is for tiptoeing around, as in the Holy of Holies, hushed as
Wren feathers, expecting any moment to hear from God. Reading in Job where God speaks. This morning He might have said, “Do you know
in which chest I store the fog? Like a
dowry wrapped in finest silk for the Bride to spread out and submerge the
forest in a deep quiet as a lovers bed on the first evening.”
 |
| Gustav Klimt |
No comments:
Post a Comment