Sitting in the Mulching Radius

Seated on roots and chips of wood
turned over and handled previously;
a pause
for rapture, for the blanket
of steely undulations of fog
filling softly the space between
fanned branches and eyelashes,

piling up and dusting
written upon white walls
not fully erased, markings smudging
and unbudging in busy confusion
and disparate fragments
that work on my fingers
drizzling timber and dirt.