Fog blankets sky
as snow covers ground in colder times,
casting pall of sameness across heavens,
absorbing remnant thoughts of new day.
Snow can be shoveled aside
yea, walked or skied over.
Fog broods, suffocates
frustrates efforts to remove it through stifling
paradoxically physical but ephemeral,
a substance without substance,
a matter of matter without matter,
no heft, no time, but, yes, height and length,
clammy pillow against which we cannot lay our heads
nor essay to fluff in our particular way—
no comfort in gloating fog.
Helpless, we scan expanse of colorless
with lonely hope sun will melt it away,
bring color, light, life
to our world.
Words © 2012 AtHome Pilgrim.
All Rights Reserved.