Their burdens

are heavy,

and come

clickity-clicking

like train-sound

on a still day.

There is a sun

the world blots out.

We search the fog

for answers,

trace blurred lines

of distant trees,

search memory

for a map pin

of where

we want to be.

If I told you

to shine anyway,

could you?

Even the atoms

call out for help;

sometimes,

they whisper,

more often,

they shout.

Yes, the fog

is thick again,

but it is lifting.