Fog Before Courage
On, fog, hesitation, and the mercy of not knowing what comes next
Morning doesn’t arrive clean.
It seeps.
A low, patient fog rolls in like breath held too long,
like the land deciding not to explain itself today.
The road disappears first—
always the road—
as if direction is optional before coffee,
before courage.
Everything sharp gets softened.
Fences lose their argument.
Houses forget their names.
Even the trees stand quieter,
their outlines erased down to intention.
Fog is winter’s way of washing the world
without water.
A dry baptism.
Cold enough to sting.
Gentle enough to forgive.
It takes the noise first—
the future,
the headlines,
the clatter of what I’m supposed to become—
and leaves only what still works.
Breath.
Footsteps.
The small creak of a body waking up
and agreeing, again,
to carry me.
There’s mercy in not seeing too far ahead.
In being told:
Stand here.
This is enough for now.
By the time the sun starts negotiating its way through,
I almost miss the cover.
The way fog lets you belong to the moment
without demanding proof.
Some mornings don’t want to be understood.
They want to be passed through slowly,
like smoke,
like prayer,
like a hand over your eyes saying—
Not yet.
Just be.