The Fog
The fog rolls in and surrounds our town.
It hangs in spots and then opens wide.
No rhyme or reason
And no respect for any one season.
It comes when it’s warm
And hangs even closer, on days that are cold.
At night it may rise higher and hang like a ceiling above,
And reflect back the city lights, so that night has lost its’ darkness
And I think this must be like what they call White Nights.
The fog makes me feel nostalgic, but I can’t tell you why.
It’s like being wrapped in a blanket and held to the breast of our earth.
It’s like the breath of a mother upon her child on a cold morn,
Or like a sauna that is just steamy, without the heat.
The fog confuses me as I struggle to explain just how I feel –
What it is about the fog that holds that melancholy appeal.
I don’t know how to tell, you except that I have always loved it so,
So today as it rolls in, I’ll just grab my coat, bundle up for a walk,
And off I go, amongst the swirls and curls of the vapors called fog.
3/18/2004
It hangs in spots and then opens wide.
No rhyme or reason
And no respect for any one season.
It comes when it’s warm
And hangs even closer, on days that are cold.
At night it may rise higher and hang like a ceiling above,
And reflect back the city lights, so that night has lost its’ darkness
And I think this must be like what they call White Nights.
The fog makes me feel nostalgic, but I can’t tell you why.
It’s like being wrapped in a blanket and held to the breast of our earth.
It’s like the breath of a mother upon her child on a cold morn,
Or like a sauna that is just steamy, without the heat.
The fog confuses me as I struggle to explain just how I feel –
What it is about the fog that holds that melancholy appeal.
I don’t know how to tell, you except that I have always loved it so,
So today as it rolls in, I’ll just grab my coat, bundle up for a walk,
And off I go, amongst the swirls and curls of the vapors called fog.
3/18/2004
