Perhaps we long for the lifting fog to permanently soften the sharp edges of rugged tree trunk and jagged stone, to smooth lines etched deep under our aging eyes. In this way nothing is better than blur, soft like a child, lines without a blade in them.
Maybe as the new goes on replacing the old, a pristine love arrives in us each morning, fresh as bird song after a balmy starlit night. It gently spreads through the air until a small wind arrives and blows it back to earth, note by note. Carried away by a quick-moving stream, it moves along and continues to sing wherever the water is going: a flicker of eyelid, a turning of cheek, a sudden unexpected touch.