A wayra sequence from the Oracle has nothing but hope this morning.
Mother mist rises
Mother mist rises,
enfolds in her gentle arms
purple night shadows, brushing
with changing light, sun hues
and the golden taste of morning.
Cold death slinks away,
drawn by the sunken moon,
lured by music, siren-sung,
beyond the horizon,
sparkling now with molten frost drops.
Roses rimed in frost,
their honey drips slow and sweet,
melting like the damp darkness
beneath tree shade, dark-boughed,
and I recall their summer scent.