The Breathing

An absolutepatience.

Trees standup to their knees infog.

The fogslowly flowsuphill.

Whitecobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples.

The woodsfrom brook to wherethe top of the hill looksover the fog, send upnot one bird.

So absolute, it isno other thanhappiness itself, a breathingtoo quiet to hear.