Yet here's the sun
lifting from the quills of morning
through mist-filled woods
thinner now each hour
The sky deepens to the blue you love
midges dance with sunlight in their wings
refraction slips along on gossamer
connecting everything to everything
The spiders too have spun a busy night
and here am I writing in a field
another poem with you in it
so thinly veiled our past shines through
Translucent webbed and hung with dew
backlit by all that happened
with winter still two moons away
yet where are you?
The light through fog is convalescent.
—Virginia Wolfe
