Last Fog at Sunrise

Travers Charron

If life stretched on forever,

would we still kneel in the wild mint

just to listen to the wind?

It’s the fire burning low

that draws us near.

The song, fading

that makes us sing.

The morning mist lifting

that reveals the deer

in the clearing.

Grief is not just absence–

it’s the overflow

of all we didn’t say,

the touch we postponed,

a life paused too long

on someday.

We are each

a breath on glass,

a shadow just beginning to fall.

One day,

we’ll rise

as the last fog at sunrise–

already vanishing

as the light arrives.

Sof if you love,

say so.

If something stirs you,

listen.

The morning comes quickly.

And the fog

never stays.

More from Travers Charron ↓

• @the_inkwellian on Threads
• Scattering Poem Seeds on Substack
• His tanka and haiku collection, Glass Shadows, is available now.
• Currently he is preparing his first full-length poetry collection, Thunderclap Heart, for submission later this year.