Everything is on hold,
wisps of smoke, clouds, fog, mist.
The still morning air is a ruthless shade of gray.
At the line of the horizon,
past the fields, beyond the lake,
long fingers of light,
deep red veins,
pierce the clouds.
An extraordinary May sun dissolves this gray,
penetrates the fantastic surface of things.
It illuminates the porous and the impenetrable alike
-a world made of light and strings.