Every once in a while I'll catch it on my way to work: the vapor rising over the green wheat. I want to stop and walk through it, but I'm usually late. I suppose it's one of those moments, a Robert Frost moment, "...The woods are lovely, dark, and deep/But I have promises to keep..."
Do you have those moments? Something of beauty calls you into it, yet heeding the call is all but impossible - or it seems that way. When the vapor rises from the ground, I've seen it in the early evening lately too, I want to melt into it.
The chemical change from liquid to gas reminds me of this, even as it calls me deeper: only for a little while am I here, and then I vanish like a breath. This is the perspective I need today; I need to know how small I am, how short is my time.
Those green misty fields call me into them because they remind me of mystery - of something greater than my own understanding. I want to walk through the vapor, drenching my hands, and maybe I'd hear a whisper from a voice I've been longing to hear. Maybe I'd even beg the sun not to rise and burn the mist away.
I am a vapor vanishing in the wind.