COME TO ME

Deep morning fog, the hazy line
of the pasture fence, the island
of our house. You could be
just beyond the indistinct merge
of the mist, where it thickens
to opacity, and I'd miss you.
You could be a thousand miles away
and still no further than the descended
cloud of the sky lets me see.
Missing arises from the relativity
of distance and distance is in
the mind, and mind condenses
and thickens its mists.

In a little while, the sun
will shine, and mind
will clear, and the fog
will burn and tatter and lift.
You will stand in reality
before me and the coiled heat
of our gazes will sharpen
the air between us, sharp
enought to cut through the agony
of time alone and set it scudding
off with the broken fog.

Come to me soon.
Come to me open and spread
wide across the curving prairie.
Come to me with water in your smile.
Come to me with sparks in your fingertips.
Come to me with every yearning unbound, with the
mad world slowing down and distance shrunk
to the stillness of the space
between our skin. I wait
here in the clearing
mist for you
to come
to me.



© 2004 by Richard W. Todd

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