The fog creeps in but it doesn't creep out: it lifts; joins forces with air; returns as rain clouds, whose gifts to us are only accidentally sent, and we can only keep them for a while. When you look out at green hills grayed with morning mist, remember -- everything that dies was born. Don't list the things you've lost or worry where they went; breathe Spring's scent from dew-damp soil and smile.
Copyright 1995 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.