An absolute <br />patience. <br />Trees stand <br />up to their knees in <br />fog. The fog <br />slowly flows <br />uphill. <br />White <br />cobwebs, the grass <br />leaning where deer <br />have looked for apples. <br />The woods <br />from brook to where <br />the top of the hill looks <br />over the fog, send up <br />not one bird. <br />So absolute, it is <br />no other than <br />happiness itself, a breathing <br />too quiet to hear.<br /><br />Denise Levertov<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-breathing/
