I like a foggy morning
- with its graceful revelations.
The way it whispers with no argument
- where the high places are, and the low.
The trees rest a little longer
- and wear their gowns til ten.
Shadow-lovers linger later in the cloud
- and amble slowly to their dens
Under gently dripping leaves
- turning quietly toward the sun.
This is the soft earth,
- the kind earth,
- the respite,
- the cease-fire.