A White Fog

First day of Thanksgiving break, I woke up to a white fog.

Now such a fog is in my brain:

Creeping, encroaching, insidious

Combined effects of heaped-up work and exhaustion.

Press nose to the glass.

The foreground is visible, if blurred.

I can see only what is in front of me.

Anything might be concealed in that white realm of mystery—

Elves, fairies, wood-nymphs dancing,

Goblins watching, lurking...but not too many.

The visible is no longer green lawn, quiet wind-chimes

Through frosted glass.

There is a mountain to climb, and I am but half-ascended.

The mysterious Beyond

Hides dragons, treacherous rivers,

Nameless, fearsome monsters.

For now I have legs to climb; how long they'll last I cannot say.

Perhaps there are flowers over the mountain-crest,

But sometimes hungry dragons eat flowers.

For now, I can see my feet

To climb upward

And keep if possible from falling.

Perhaps, come the Beyond,

I shall be able to see my sword

And perhaps there will be strength to wield it.