Morning Fog
Morning Fog
This morning
when there is much to do inside,
there is fog outside my window.
The fog I sought two mornings ago
that caused me to dash to the car
in hopes I could grab a coffee
and sit by the lake,
witness to the softening of the world,
treetops indistinct, not yet awakened from their dreams.
By the time I reached the street
rain had dissolved,
captured,
drunk up the tiny molecules
of water playing fog.
I like rain, too, so I stayed on the road,
found myself coffee and a breakfast
by a temperature controlled fireplace.
Despite the rain, the little cafe
quickly became peopled
and I had to move on.
The soft shield of fog
was what I was hungry for,
not the food I left half eaten.
The desire to be
fogged in, alone or companionable,
putting thoughts to paper
or contentedly one
with the downy view,
the lack of detail,
the absence of certainty,
the enveloping moisture
making all things
remember
what it was like to be born.
We are all born
In some kind of moisture --
pushing through the dark damp soil,
or squeezed through a tunnel of flesh,
causing someone pain
for the first of many times.
Or we peck our way through
a fragile/sturdy shell,
wet with possibility,
or we're loosed with a hundred siblings
into a salty waterscape of danger,
calculating our chances.
For all of us,
our first vision must be a little foggy,
our possibility of success unclear.
But
every foggy morning
crawls into my soul
to whisper
what it could be
to be reborn.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
