Why is it that sometimes, something

Why is it that sometimes, something wrings us from ourselves

that the clouds get away with obscuring the Great Big
and with making us cozy on earth

that what we are, we complicate
we ask and doubt and reason

while the world we know may turn without explanation,
and we know it is beautiful.

And it's as if, without a plan

And it's as if, without a plan
I'll head in to the pro mist land
Unawares of what may come
and still less which path I took

They say there's danger, and I know
that I can handle any blow,
and that while I may win some
more than once I have been shook

Yet this invisible path I seek,
I turn to with a pull'n taught cheek
that grins and sounds a humble hum
and leads me where I may not look.