Reba, you are big now, much too big to enjoy the fog
Sitting in different shapes of everything we fear
When trust was only those we know. There is no log
Of wood, or time the stories that I did share
Was my own way of inventing happiness for me as well
I was your griot and you my princess who
Heard a poet told his pain like beads where fingers swell
What matters except that we loved, we two
And did not know after our tale the fog would still stay
And the light would break in it and bleed pale
Anemic rainbows, without promise in the ponds decay.
We have better things to laugh about today
I only wish the fog did not enthrall so, strong is the feeble sway.