Clouds of Water of Clouds

What is my mind making now, crazy thing
That won't leave itself alone one moment?

I would like to think that fog is out there,
Just as it appears, rising off of pines

Like the backdrop for a Japanese poem
By a long-ago Zen master in robes,

Something requiring precision to catch
With the correct thinking, correct science,

But I'm quite sure that this is only me,
Only nothing whatever once again,

Hearing sad music in a wet landscape
In which what is is inseparable

From what was and what I imagine
Might be about to be, all this fog,

Rolling down from glaciers, up from the lake,
Wisps fingering through me, mind made of trees.