Here is the fog this morning that blankets all
then lifts— See? there are the boats, lanterns
on the pier, rooftops coming into view: proof
that given a chance, a change in weather,
some things come back— Or never really left.
That’s why the monk bows a blessing, and the beggar
whispers thanks or fuck you; even the light bulb
sputters, the filament cracks when the light goes out.
These things shouldn’t be difficult to notice; or
I like to think nothing’s ever forsaken for long.
In response to Via Negativa: How to Live.