A delicate fuzz of fog,
like mold, or moss,
all across the river
in this early light.
Another day, I might
have still been sleeping.
What a pity. How the stars
and seas and rivers
in their fragile lace of fog
go on without us
morning after morning,
year after year.
And we disappear.
Crazy, isn't it? It's hard to believe that everything we see, things as majestic as sunrises and things as ordinary as the 86 bus rolling across town, will go on without us. I suppose it is both crazy and simply obvious, yet the poem describes the moment beautifully--a moment of realization and appreciation for earth, for life.
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