Awakening

Some days wake you in a mist,
unsure of where you are.
No trees mark your path
with sun and shadow,
or lake reflect an open sky.
So you have to pull it out
from deep inside,
that image
of how you want to be—
dressed in mountain gear
and hiking boots,
curling feathers—
those things you hold too dear
for everywear.
And you put it on,
that image,
feel warmth of gloves and coat,
weight of leather boots laced up
around your ankles,
silky sheen of feathers.
And as you dress yourself
in what you want to be,
you put down roots,
feel the sap
circulate
and your hands begin to leaf
as you stretch arms to the sky,
seek a patch of thinning fog
where sun will come,
and you begin to find the morning,
feel the coming rays
promise heat,
and light, shadowing, glowing,
beating in your heart.
And birds begin to sing,
wing with feathers curling to
horizons all around.