love, read, write

I feel like I'm in search of some kind of peace, a settling. Sediment to fall, to unfog.
Shed seasons leave dimpled fingerprints that shape me closer to that image,
my whistling song emerging from clay into what I tell to myself is that fabled peace -
but I feel too weathered to know,
to taste salt from smog, sugar from dirt.
My eyes still see through thick
only barely the wisps of something that may be quiet,
may be peace.