The Mist of Being

The tree stood in the fog

That slumbered across the hill.

Void of will,

The haze was suspended

Only by its being.

When there is no striving

Things just are.

Like the mist of sleep, the fog

Unconsciously wrapped the tree

In a deep ease.

And the tree slept

Within the still presence

Of its own being.

On the hill, the tree and the fog

Stood as they were,

Lost to all direction and time,