My hand languishes atop the seat of Eric's bike,
unfamiliar dewdrops collecting on my fingertips.
I will not wipe them away,
these rare, soft diamonds.
Instead, they shall sit undisturbed, until their cool weightiness
leads them to each other,
where, eventually, they do a slow swan dive,
landing quietly atop the parched earth.
How many days have I squandered?
More than I can count.
This, however, is not one of them,
the quiet fog having none of it.
I wend my way through the park,
its features softened and hugged by condensation,
and I am content to be silent,
hearing only the crackle of curled Oak leaves,
floating to the dewy earth.
This is my walking prayer, whispered on a foggy Saturday morn,
my quiet words taken in by the soft air that wraps around me.
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