Bird in the Mist

We have reached a moment, a point of decision;
I have searched for the words to give form to my feelings,
to give sense to it all, to make the thing complete,
but I left only fragments laid aside, 
each one too hard, too sweet, too harsh, and not enough.
They do not fit together,
the truth is somewhere else. And I cannot speak,
I cannot write; instead, I find myself
in the early morning, the grey mist and the dew,
where the new light is strange and beautiful,
and nothing is clear, but everything possible,
waiting to be, under a widening sky.
And there is a bird, half-glimpsed at best, with
grey feathers softening into the grey of the morning:
a bird flying upward, her wings spread bravely, lifting away.
Remember the times that are there to be remembered,
the bright days, the warm days; then
watch as the light strengthens, and the day begins,
and know that the bird in the mist 
is returning to the sun.