-This poem reflects on a meadow wrapped in early morning fog, where late summer begins the day with softness, quiet, and gentle revelation.
Before the sun has claimed the field,
the meadow keeps a softer world,
where fog lies low among the grass,
and every edge forgets its name.
The fence is only half revealed,
the trees stand quiet in the white,
while spider webs between the stems,
gather pearls the dawn has made.
No hurry finds this gentle hour,
the light arrives by careful degrees,
lifting veil from leaf and stone,
until the hidden greets the day.
So much of late summer begins,
not in brightness, but in mercy,
the earth allowed one silent breath,
before the warmth returns again.