Fog

They told me about the fog. They didn’t

tell me it was a living, breathing creature

that slinks in at night to

            curl up and sleep on the bed of our bay.

No one ever said, “And one morning you’ll wake up to see it sparkling.”

It’s as if they’re blind. They see something other than

the melancholic movements of a lonely trickster of the 

atmosphere who’s trapped the rain in his bag to keep itself warm

           as it rolls in for the night.

I wonder where it goes when we wander through the

early morning streets, evicting it and the other

curbside tenants of our town.

_________________

It's been two years since I posted a poem. Well, it's April again and I'm back for more poetry. I'm a few days late, but here is my first poem of the month. It's been a while since I've sat down to write poetry and I seem to have forgotten how fun it is to create something that evolves on its own. Sometimes I think I know what I am saying, but an image or a word will tell me otherwise. Before I know the poem has written itself.

Enjoy!