by Annette Snyckers

I woke up to mist this morning,
in stillness it draped
its wispy web
over the tallest treetops
and lingered languidly
in the valley until midday.

Now the mountain
has reassembled itself
in my window,
droplets shimmer in the filigree
of bare winter branches
and catch the sunlight
in a prism of sparkling colour.
Depending on which way
I tilt my head –
flashing crimson,
flashing green.

If I could look at problems
in this way,
vary my viewpoint
even slightly,
perhaps I’d also be amazed
at the change I see.


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