Yesterday

Mist not only obscures, but reveals.
The mountains,
that cracked rim of bowl that holds me,
are gone.

With the long view hidden
that vast mid-ground,
the great swathe of days,
now looms.

What was indistinct comes clear.
The shape of things closer to home
appears.

The trees across the way
are sharp, alive, and talking
—here the hawk rests,
—remember the owl hunts at night.

Memories once hidden in branches
have language again,
fly straight at me,
banking at the last

curling back on themselves,
reaching the trees as the mist lifts,
as memories fade

and the mountains rise,
folding yesterday back into
the heart of its broken bowl.